The Weeping Willow

The old tree stood silently

By the window of a bedroom

Without making a sound

Save when its leaves rustled

In gentle protest to the winds


It slept on during the day

But sprung awake at night

Listening in on the secrets

That spilled over from that room


The many thrilling ebbs of life

The stories created in that bedroom

The breathy sounds hushed out

From the vulnerable loins of love


The branches swooned for more

The flowers flush with desire

Stirred by the longings of a man and woman


The joys, successes and healing

The sorrows, failings, and hurts

The calming waters and burning fires

That both thrived in that sacred space

Passed on by the whispering night air

To the weeping willow.