My tree sleeps in the gentle rain.
My tree weeps, a soft, sweet refrain.
Although it is dreary, dark and dank.
I’ve got a lot, much for to thank.
For with the dark and dreary, heavy and wet,
Comes a coolness you don’t have to sweat.
Comes a sweet stillness in the heavy air.
A time to think and it time to prepare.
There is a certain sadness to my tree laden down.
Heavy with rain, nearly touching the ground.
And so I sleep, my head to my pillow.
She is after all, a Weeping Willow.
Copyright 2001 © Ronald W. Hull