Way atop that grassy hill,
Mopes a weeping willow tree.
How gnarled and knobby her branches bend,
How sickly-colored are her leaves.

All the oaks, firs, and maples taunt,
While the weeping willow stands alone.
Nobody picnics beneath her shadow,
No birds call her branches home.

She carries along great wisdom,
Though she’s no candy to one’s eye.
She wears no leaves of Crayola crayons,
Therefore nobody stops by.

Her withered bark bares exhaustion,
So depressed, she mourns and weeps,
The moon can’t help but hide her,
No nightlight, she never sleeps.

Weeping Willow’s always welcoming,
Though she’s completely hollow inside.
A simple smile could fill her emptiness,
But on she slouches, love deprived.

My heart sinks when I see her,
Sad and weeping she’ll always be.
She longs for time to chop her down,
The weeping willow tree is me.