Weeping Willow

Weeping willows.

They are not quite motherly,

They are not carrying the

Connotation

That mothering brings to some

But they are... Nurturing.

They are unlike anything

I've ever experienced.

When I was young I played

On the willow's strong branches

And swung across clearings

On it's many vines.

I could jump and sail quickly

From a tree to a log

And land on my feet.

Of course, there was no one

There to cheer.

I cheered for myself.

And it felt good.

I feel the willow's vines

Reach out to take my hand,

Even now, sometimes.

Swing, it urges me.

Play. Be new and curious again.

I do. I play for hours in the cold

And no one is there to point out

My goosebumps and shivers.

I tell myself to go inside.

I feel good.

Now after growing up,

When exams and relationships

And practicality come into play

I reach out for the willow

That watches through my window.

It tangles my hand amongst vines

And pulls me under it's shade

And swings me around, like

A child's swingset.

And there are a few there to see it.

My first kiss, under the shade.

My best poem, against the trunk.

My sweetest dreams, in it's glow.

My slowest mornings, in it's dew.

There are a few there to see it.

They cheer me on.

I cheer myself.

It's cold, so I go inside.

Through my window,

The willow watches.

But it does not weep,

For that it cannot join me.

It's vines find me

In the lightest, and the darkest.

I feel at peace.

I feel good.