Oh, Willow. (spoken from the heart)

My body is a willow tree.
I cannot think her different;
she is witness to too many tears
to be called "fir", or "holly".

It is ever teary satellites that find her,
often strip her of her beauty
as she tries to bear them
but, gently, fails.

Without words
she sweetly gasps, groaning
under the sorrow
of one million moons,

those cruel, ominous creatures
that watch in solemnity
as she struggles --
Oh, willow.

Was ever there a one
that looked more plain
than my willow?
Was ever there a one?

Was ever there a one
that spoke ever more sparsely
than my willow?
Was ever there a one?

Yet, my willow is more --
light shines through her,
(not from the bright sun
but from within).

She savors her silence
until stars come out at night
and dance in her hair,
(laughing as children will)

and only then does she weep,
telling me "There is beauty, beauty,"
and I must believe her,
for I love her so.