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What Kind of Tree
What gave me away?
Was it my sway?
Or my long limber limbs
Like glasses with broken rims?
Oh sure, wind has its way with me,
But broken or uprooted, I’ll never be.
Neither short nor tall, would be my description.
My strength and elasticity, a better depiction.
Cry me a river is your first hint,
And for the second; I’m easily bent.
Not a flower, or a bush, but green if you please.
In a botanical listing, I’m found under trees.
Who I am, I will proudly bellow.
I’m known to all as a weeping willow.
Copyright ©
Bill Baker
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