Can one feel the secrets a willow whispers,
As her leafy fingers stroke the earth?
Almost as if in a lovers caress,
As they twirl around one in the lightest of embraces.
Enticing the senses to lull into lucidness,
With every sweep of her graceful limbs.
All else forgotten as one rests among her roots,
A dreamlike haze in the tranquil peace.
Soft fleeting touches,
Of a shy breeze's hesitant affection.
Amorous utterings of an untold devotion,
Sheepish admissions of a gentle nature.
What but this serenity...
This essence of true somberness.
Of a calm unknown and alien to that which is our norm,
Could so put at ease all discomforts...any disquiets?
Any uncertainties fade,
Dissolving, wafting off in the mild vapor.
For a small moment time ceases to be,
As her secrets are spilled unto unconcieving ears.
Thus the willow forever weeps,
Ensnared in her everlasting adoration and misery.
Always charmed by those who rest beneath the security of her branches,
But eternally unable to share her rapture and thus inducing the anguish for which she weeps.
