The willow weeps for no one.

I reflect upon this quiet day,
and as the willow gently sways.
I'd like to think it weeps for me,
it's fronds engaged in melody.

Then I know it does not show,
the things I'd like to think are hidden.
It sits here all alone,
not carring what I've written.

It rests here upon the bank,
willow essence cannot be thanked.
Unconcerned that I see,
appreciating majesty.

It's for me to understand,
that I cannot shake its hand.
Show it love or say hello,
It only feels the wind blow.

I will go and one day be gone,
and the willow still weeps on and on.
It can't forget what it didn't remember,
Not knowing that it was September.

Even embracing my humanity,
I can't let it get the best of me.
To give the willow personality must be fun,
but it the end I know, the willow weeps for no one.

Reviews

[Lucinda Bogart]

This really speaks to me. When I was a little kid I used to love to sit up in trees, and I believed they were like big people who would listen and know, even though I wasn't talking.

Also, the concept of a tree wheeping, even a wheeping willow, captures the deterioration of our planet and leads me to ask the question....Does the world cry ?

[Siddartha Beth Pierce]

A lovely write...your last line and title caught me...I wonder if they do perhaps notice what is going on about them as plants react and grow better when played classical music - however, perhaps you are right and they go about their lives not noticing you sitting there, pen in hand, marveling at their majesty. A lovely write indeed. Thank you.
Light,
Siddartha