its boughs, so large and heavy
but its leaves lean to the wind
just as sadness marches steady,
to the beat one’s starts to sing

winds that cause the willow branch to groan,
pluck like harp strings, dry and rustling leaves
who speak of rope- over them thrown
when a weight should come to pull them,
it is not exactly known

life starts with hope,
and from there, the path is forked

life either dies with the sunset,
or sees the moon in panicked fraught

trees end in branches,
and on those branches tied-
are braids that end in knots

such as the willow, knows in its heart
those who come and see, afar
hides the body hanging from it
with its leaves and broken heart