Weeping Willow

(in memory of Sylvia Plath)

I know my branches, I feel

with my trunk deep down into

the warm moisture known since birth.

It is the wind playing,

humming the same tune over and over,

until I dance to its music.

Love in the shadow of clouds

rides the heavens

in thunder and lightning.

Shadows pass and disperse,

they cannot be without light,

are but one relation of two tones.

All night long I sense the stars

shiver in moonlight,

my leaves oozing silver.

I suffer pain of too many sunsets,

scorched to the roots in agony

over tolerance.

The cruel moon unveils truth,

broken stem, a thunderbolt struck

directly from above.