Have you heard what the babbling brook whispered to me one evening?
Did you listen to the whistling willow’s song brush the pond?
Perhaps you have not seen what jewel crusts the setting sun’s crown?
It does not surprise me that the Earth rejoices in your name:
You are the embodiment of everything good in this world.

I walked in the never still forest and heard you in the dance --
The sporadic and simplistic pat of small animal feet.
I listened and found you asleep among the white pond lilies
And painting the golden crust of the sun’s blood red diadem,
Yet, the brook did not utter a simple shadow shape of you.

Following the now silent stream through the forest dark and deep,
Crawling through the pointing, shredding claws and heavy, lonely eyes,
I found you swaddled in the arms of the cursed crying willow
Shaking in fear and anger, sharing tears more precious than pearls --
Take my hand as the sun rises only when we expect it.

You are the green weeping willow life-bound by endless sorrow,
But definition is a cage that should not bind such beauty:
You are both the warm summer breeze and the winter frost topped trees,
The soaring mother eagle and the light notes of a spring song --
You are the babbling brook that speaks only of hope and the dawn.