"The Weeping Willow Also Sings"

(photo by: Marjan Gresl)
Although the seasons change and alter you
—a vagary of flurries blowing through—
emerges from a union with the breeze,
to croon and sway along as other trees;
and as the winds may bow and make you spin
your merriment is swift upon the wind.
When zephyr with his throng, attends your leaves
you’re handled with concern amidst the eaves.
And when the remnants from the east retreat
they fetch the fellowship of harmony.

Accepting friends so freely to affect
observant solitude and deep respect;
your limbs outstretched resembling a dome,
are commonly left as an empty home.
So visitors are welcome anytime;
reposing in the shade as tresses chime.
O how I wish that I were underneath
the stipule leaves—exuding off their breath!
Then I might be the friend I wish you had
To visit you whenever you are sad.

But I’ll conceit—your suffering to know
by writing, lest unmoved before I go.
My neck should be as branches sloping down
in gratitude to landscapes spreading round.
My hair should wilt to cover up my face,
like flower stalks that blanket your estate.
My voice should be connected to my peers
just like the music you have made for years.
And when I leave, I’ll tell my friend these things.
I’ll say, I know song the willow sings.