A Willow’s Garden
When night is unsheathed like a sword,
The life of the night springs forward,
There is a garden of life,
A place one escapes to flee from strife,
With a bench painted white,
She sits there all night,
Her eyes fall into a gaze,
Her mind fights the maze,
The flowers are withered by daylight,
But bloom to life with bright petals by night,
In the center stands a weeping willow tree,
It expresses itself and knows it’s free,
Free to let her vines hang,
Free to let the wind whistle through her branches and she sang,
A song of longing and tears,
A song of forgotten fears,
Her teardrops glisten on her bark of auburn,
She whispers tenderly to a fern,
With a ballet of raindrops they touch her vines,
And in the wet dirt her thick roots draw a line,
The crescent moon and night disappears,
And the sun rises with the fading of heaven’s tears,
Here in this garden the willow weeps and sighs,
Here she bows her head waiting for nights return,
But until then the willow whispers goodbye
And closes her eyes.
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