willow tree, that sepulchre
for love poems and
weathered hearts
drawn in bark.
evermore the widow,
sighing in the night
when the wind parted its branches
like nubile legs,
seductive in its yearning
for trilling fingers
and words that howled
passion. these are
promises left lonely, singeing
the air with sweet mirage, like
the fragrance of oranges in

but maybe
susie did love frank

we're not permanent, only temporary.