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
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