Willow

Softly moths fly through the leaves
And waves are heard nearby
And while the squirrels prepare for cold
The winds carry robins’ cries

Braches long and slender tumble
Each leaf a flashing gem
Trunk still standing tall and straight
A wilting diadem

Underfoot the brown leaves crackle
Forgotten memories fallen
Wisps of breeze gust by gently
Messengers of pollen

Beyond the tree the workers gather
Clad in orange vests
Not admiring the scenery; rather
Discussing which tree falls next

Bright and conspicuous they stalk to the willow
Brutal saws glinting cold and bright
And nod in unison, marking the tree
With a red sign that shines with cruel light

When the workers leave and peace regains,
Only the footprints and sign remain
And the willow waits, unknowing, for night
Oblivious of its curse despite
The red sign as a constant reminder
Of the dark intents of the vest clad finders

And the willow blows softly in the wind
Still tranquil and graceful and elegant since
It doesn’t know what’s coming yet
And so feels free to watch one last sunset