willows

Between appointments yesterday I had an hour to kill, and I parked at the boat club and went for a walk up the river. On that stretch of path there are a lot of willow trees leaning into the water, and they brought to mind a clever poem by A E Stallings. Today my friend Joan came over for lunch, and willow trees came up in a conversation about her garden, so this is for Joan:

The Man Who Wouldn’t Plant Willow Trees

Willows are messy trees. Hair in their eyes,
they weep like women after too much wine
and not enough love. They litter a lawn with leaves
Like the butts of regrets smoked down to the filter.

They are always out of kilter. Thirsty as drunks,
They’ll sink into a sewer with their roots.
They have no pride. There’s never enough sorrow.
A breeze threatens and they shake with sobs.

Willows are slobs, and must be cleaned up after.
They’ll bust up pipes just looking for a drink.
Their fingers tremble, but make wicked switches.
They claim they are sorry, but they whisper it.