The limbs of weeping willows,
Hang over the redbud trees.
Pink flowers on the redbuds,
Are ones that are real beauties.

As gray clouds are divided,
The  sunlight, makes its way through;
The leaves then lean toward it,
As nature intends them to.

As wind whips limbs and branches,
Redbud petals whirl in air,
The ground will have  a carpet,
Of pink near the village square.