Willow

Loose green tendrils drooping low kiss the soft green earth, the bough kneels with the wind as if in prayer, a penitent, so humble, so predictable, like others of its kind. A pliant bow that's unreleased, and like to spring to heaven with a swish, a stately, monumental king of meadow and a murmuring stream, in haze concealed, a misty dream, a graceful monolith 'twould seem, cloaked in the blue-grey hush.