Out of the waters springs a willow tree
Not the tallest nor the lushest
But the most resolute.
It heeds not the tickle of the roaring waves,
It minds not the fickleness of the flitting birds.
O’er the rising sun and waxing moon it stands as an absolute.
Were it sentient, would it feel the prick of solitude?
For the bonds of loneliness
Even the most hardened of hearts desires to elude.
Were its branches wings
On to the lake would it still cling?
Or is the grass green
On the other side with the promise of intimate sheen.