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.
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