The wind whipped and bellowed against her branches,
Her long green hair whipping with it.
Her beautiful body arched extravagantly, baring all for the world to see.
Her marks tell the stories of years that had come to pass.
There was a story of lovers laughing in the summer air.
A father being laid to rest on a snowy winter day.
A mother watching the children play while she visits her husband.
Children saying goodbye to their mother as they are about to see the world.
And then years later grandchildren laying their grandmother to rest next to their grandfather.
Generations of stories happened underneath her drooping branches.
The wind finally calmed but poor willow , she was still weeping for she longs for the nights and days filled with love underneath her branches.
YOU ARE READING
Absinthe Poetry.
PoetryWARNING THE WRITING IN THIS BOOK MAY BE TRIGGERING : Talking with you is like Morse code, To the world it doesn't make sense, But to us the words and taps mix in a beautiful melody. One tap. I like you. Two taps I want you . Three taps. I think I...
