The Willow Tree

Man had travelled many miles.

Man had travelled across countless seas, on countless roads, and through countless burdens.

Man knew what suffering was, and was not soon to forget it.

As he reached the clearing, he was met by a tranquil pond.

The man knelt, and drank the sweet water, revived.

His pain lessened.

With hands rough from labor, he reached into a pocket and pulled out a single seed.

Kneeling before the lake, he dug a small hole.

"I'm doing this for my children"

And he let his final tears nourish it.

The sapling flourished,

The time passed,

A tree stood tall.

The old willow tree reflected upon the smooth face of the crystal lake, stretching out its branches to skim the tip. 

Allowing its leaves to take a sip,

and plunge themselves into a graceful baptism.

Kissing the muddy bank from the noble rank of ripples that trail in the dirt.

Flexing and stretching,

growing with age.

A splash flew to meet the tree, to embrace it in all of its glory,

To consummate the lovers under the moon, the tree and lake

Only to be enveloped by the sweet scent of a night breeze.

The lovers remained day after day, week after week,

Never letting go until a flame did speak,

From calloused hands and worker boots.

From Bulldozers and hard hats that spoke of innovation.

"We're doing this for our children."

And with that the branches were singed,

The trunk was cut,

The bark was stripped.

They gutted the tree, feasting on it,

Savoring and reveling in the taste of loss and innocence.

The waters drained down into stomachs filled with greed.

The tree did not cry.