The Weeping Willow, Fell, Naught, Not Soon. Poem by Michael Gale

Yes-The weeping Willow
is a tree that bends with
the wind, or wills it's
own resistance...
Mother Nature's
own insistence.

Oh Willow, strong and tall...
Remnant of things that
never do fall.

An image of an object,
very immovable...
Always here, anchored
undo able.

Here, always had...
Never gone, never
sad.

Always and forever,
a gifted smile...
To my face,
along, long, many a mile.

Stretches far...
Like the Earth's
scabbed, like a scar.

Into the Earth, do
the roots deep sink...
Like of a protected
armour, to never
part, or chink.

The Willow tree, stands
bent but tall...
Never fell, or never
to feebly, stall.

Onward and upward
towards the sky...
Sun doused in strength,
Never less, to die.

Timbered, finally, loudly fell...
Beside the river's, ebbing swell.

Ebbing swell, hath heard on Earth...
Doomed to die, since after a
long, grown, absented, birth.

At it's base...
The most monstrous a girth.