A Poem

Does the willow know? Does it feel the wind? Are those just random gestures Or is it telling me something As it bows? Can it know it will never be a tree? Does it care that the dove knows There is no branch for him And passes overhead To the oak instead Who hides the nesting wren? Her clutch of fragile babes A cradle for her to keep them in Hid from the prowler’s raids T’is the willow So Mr. Oak now you see It’s together we make a place For all of nature to be Whether or not you are a tree