My willow does not weep but hangs.
A wilting willow in the whistling wind with
lilting frond-like forms
resembling leaden peoples trembling
swinging when the wind blows. Singing
songs of listless limbs that pendulously throng
strung up on nature’s gallows.
A dozen dangling sallow shadows
who flail in execution: scarecrows
poised in painless salicylic crucifixion;
where doves embark to love above
the branched alcoves of leafy dark.
Zachariah Rush
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/willow-song/
