The Weeper

The weeping willow tree has gone into shock,losing its leaves,dropping into the water the discardsof an endless fight with the earth’s emotional tyranny.It’s sad. It’s dying. It’s empty.I watch from my terraceunable to fix it.I’ve been there but without the cushion of waterto catch my fallfrom the betrayal and shock.My leaves don’t fall,they stand firm against me,wet with memories and frailty.I cannot shed my outer shellto rebuild new growth. I am not made that way.I watch leaves dive slowly into the pondas frogs jump onto the eviction of shade.I know that the tearing of lifelessness can seem painful.It tries to hang on each branch for as long as possibleand then it lets go of lifepouring into the vastness of loss.Beauty resurfaces in the tiny presence of hopethat springs into the green of each shade of leaves.I can witness the miracle.I can justify its birth.I can only wish to be that new rise of faiththat nature recycles with each organism.