Willow, willow, drooping gold,
there is a story you have told
of how you cast your locks upon
a cold stream always passing on.
Your melancholic, bold display
of gravity throughout the day
is just the gesture to appall
the trees beside you standing tall
and primly saying nothing much.
They hate the way you seem to gush,
as if relief were to be found
in falling forward to the ground.
It makes them wince to see you bend;
they’re wondering what you intend.
Your grief in gaudy limbs unfurled
like garments rent before the world
is just too much for them to take.
(They think, in fact, it’s all a fake.)
But willow, willow, I’m with you.
If only I could cast my rue
in similarly lush cascades
of desperate, abandoned braids.