Willow trees
line the muddy river bank.
Roots twine in the sand
and don't mind the floods.

But one willow is sad.
It droops in the rain,
Bends low in the wind,
trails in the waters.

The willow is weeping,
for it lost a love
long, long ago
in the far mist of yesteryear.

Its leaves are shaped like swords
or tears or spears
that wound the heart,
its weak, weak heart.

One day,
it will simply fall away,
into the river,
where it will be bleached bones
floating on the current,
drifting along
in the course of its tears.