You were beautiful—
strong, soft, and kind,
a willow rooted in love,
bending but never breaking.
Your branches were our shelter,
arms that never closed,
even in the fiercest storms.
People came to you
with cracked hearts and aching souls,
and you listened—
not just to words,
but to the pain buried beneath them.
You held it all,
gentle and unwavering,
like wind cradling leaves.
You had a gift—
a soul stitched with grace,
a laugh that felt like spring rain,
hands that healed without asking for thanks,
making beauty out of grief,
hope out of shadows.
But then He came.
Not a man—
but God,
or something that wore His name
and didn’t ask permission.
He said it was time.
He said He needed you more.
But how could He?
How could He tear you from the soil
where your love still bloomed?
From the children
whose hearts still needed your warmth?
From the world
that wasn’t done learning from you?
He took you away—
cut you down
in silence and final breath.
No goodbye.
No warning.
Just a hollow space
where you used to stand.
We searched for you in dreams,
in sunbeams through curtains,
in the hum of lullabies
you used to sing.
And though your body lies still,
I see you in every wind that whispers peace,
in every leaf that trembles with knowing.
You were never just a tree.
You were our home.
Our healer.
Our heart.
And even if Heaven holds you now—
even if He claimed your soul—
your roots are still with me.
Deep.
Unshakeable.
Sacred.
I will grow in your shade forever.
And I will never let the world forget
the willow that raised me.
