Weeping Willow

In the brisk gale of her fledgling years,
She shielded a spark—not of fire, but tableau
Through sodden ground, suffused with unyielding rain.
Boughs bowed to tempest’s jeer;
And in the cacophony of children’s cries
Came they withered blooms and crystaline leaves.
Inthralled and subsumed were they as black widow's prey—

Wreathed were the voids in laughter;
Though she bends beneath the weight of relentless rains,
She drinks deeply from serenades of their joy—
Each note coaxing a faint glow, as fog dissipates at dawn.

Her words—gnarled silhouettes, once deemed a blight
Bore limbs contorted, and bark flayed smooth by mocking whispers.

Beneath the moon,
Children moved.
The tide drowned out a wraith susurrus of old
Each muffled gasp begot a sapless vein, a fount turned cracked womb.
The moon oiled the ripening of tides,
In time falling
At the roots of the willow.

Damp earth transcends a suffocating shroud;
I may tend to her
And he chriped, she barked not

Willow alike, a cricket rought for sun in winter
Murmurs futile against her silent vow.

He chirps yet--Oh how they are shed,
As were the winds,
And unalike winds a single tear cessation, was.

Renewed are their boughs and bells, ringing within
Depressed from jeer, now hanging for anthems of grace
Her embrace like weather vanes, and I thunder

"Mommy’s strong," I murmur, watching her light dance.
Let not this verse just echo paths once trod,
But sing of footfalls on frost-laced leaves, each step a spark relit.
For in her unspoken strength lies a quiet invitation,
And in her grace, a vivid glimmer of dawn reborn.

--Antonio F., Adult