Picture: Thank you, Paul Militaru.
Oh, my weeping willow
don’t spread your tears apart,
keep count of all the strings
to your heart.
So precious – your long and tender
reaches as curiosity flourishes closer
to the impressionist vacuum, which flaunts
your ersatz beauty above its murky depths
to make you sorrowful and ponder
its reasoning while your replication
is contemplative trail.
Sleep, my weeping willow,
sobbing south to face the marsh skies;
be weary now – you’ve earned it,
when you cry.