The heart is a willow,
drooped by the weight of the wind.
The breathless want of a thousand whispers
curves its frail body.
It can feel the grass kiss the tips of its branches.
it begins to think
that touching the ground
It can no longer see the sky
and it scolds itself for trying.
And this bent little heart
weeps for what it does not understand.
Because within the shade
of that fragile willow
a flower grows.
Protected from the harsh weight
of a myriad of ceaseless whispers
and the glare of a relentless sun,
it sees the blue sky.
Through the merciful spaces
between long branches
it drinks in the specks of sunlight.
And in its safe little corner
by the trunk of a crying tree