The Weeping Willow’s Song

Twine what was once mine,
twig to twig, line to line,
each woe-woven withe
as a tongue speaking pithy
to recall what was once fine
while you reminisce and pine.

Now collect your tears,
my little, red-eyed dears,
in my weeping willow basket—
enough to carry a casket
downriver, past the piers
beyond joys, regrets and fears.

The heads of my kin
are bowed heavy, like men
overwrouht with the sorrows
of bereft tomorrows
of Who and Where and When—
and all such that could have been.

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