The Willow

A worn out man slumps his shoulders
and reaches
down
into the iridescent lake. His leaves touch the surface
like fingertips gently brushing against
a cheek; he performs a dance,
gracefully swaying with the wind
swishing his light branches
to make music—dry rain lands on damp grass, olive on sea green.
But through his facade of
happiness, he grieves the loss of another for
eternity. A secret.
The majestic figure
with its twisted, gnarly branches,
wrinkly with old age:
each leaf like a tear
dripping down into the puddle at its
      feet.
But through all his misery,
he still stands,
resisting the urge to fall,
to give into the sadness;
Silently, avoiding the eyes of onlookers, he cries it away,
aging with every passing year.
He stands until the birds stop chirping, until the pond dries away
into crusting sand. And when all is gone,
he finally breaks from the burden he carries
upon his back.

5 thoughts on “The Willow

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