A tribute to Joyce Kilmer
I sit under this willow tree.
Its pendulous branchlets swaying
In concinnity around me,
a soliloquized pleasantry:
No measured words and rhymes I write
Could ever describe your beauty
Because fools never get it right
and” Poems are made by fools like me”
imperfect presentable lines.
“But only God can make a tree”
creation of perfect design.
So I write down beneath this tree
these feeble lines of poetry.
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Comments about this poem (Willow by Albert Ahearn )
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