Poetry

My wild willow
dances in the damp breeze.
Twilight gives you a sparkle or two
from the April rain falling on your head.

Will you hear the thunderheads with me?
Will you soak up the rain with me?

Before your veiny roots run dry?
Before your bark skin turns cold
and cannot hold life?

Until then, we’ll dance in the Spring
and hold life much too dear for words.

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