My Willow

That tree they make 

Cliché 

That tree they call 

Sad 

When the branches 

Are sweeping

And arching

And aching 

And happy to

Hold with the earth. 

That tree they 

Call fiction

Of story books 

In whispering winds 

All sold 

And sorrowful.

But the willow 

Is green 

Like a lime

Sublime -

A rhyme 

Made of softly 

And lofty 

And proud. 

Not proud like 

It’s better

Or brighter

Or best… 

Proud like a 

Sentinel star 

With tenacious roots 

And limbs 

And shining

Dancing leaves

And mauve catskins-

meow. 

That one I called 

Willow like a spell 

In the heart of a 

Mourning cloaked

Butterfly 

I had hoped to 

Carry home 

One day.