The Weeping Willow

The sky around her was yellow as she wept, crying her branches down to the earth. Through her curtain of sorrow, thick as it was, a lean trunk stood crooked but firm. And while it grew towards the sky her tears weighed heavy on the earth, though alive and green- she never knew. She wore her sadness as a gown. One layered and thick and weepy gown.

Next to her stood tall trees, aiming high and their branches up right. They did not droop. They did not cry. They were open and free and exposed.

And so the willow wept.

She never could see the beauty she was. She never knew that it was elegant to cry. To sob and to feel.

And the willow grew old.

Still unaware.

That the tragedy was not found in her tears.

But in the curtain that blocked her view.