Red Weeping Willow
Rivers in two directions,
many on the decorations of oil,
painting in quiet a canvass of ice,
in becoming the world the earth,
in high winds the blood drips,
these trees holding upwards,
this is the growth of generated water,
this is a tree that stands alone.
This is not a canvass,
it's a fresh pallet made of paper,
picture of itself on itself,
ink drained from marker a sponge,
thicker daubed blood sponged movement,
a butterfly leaving red magic flying,
the trunk a temple of darkness,
the shadow of dimensional graphics,
the tree thinks simply of itself.
The tails of this willow blossom,
exfoliated folliage of folly,
arching as if waxy cherries or currants,
a vine in its lineage of generation,
short grasses in shorter shades,
bending to the will o the wisp,
its red leaves little fires to the sunlight,
blown swing to signal birds nest therein.
This is the art of a tree,
from the westmost islands,
inspired from immaculacy,
looks of feathers for hair,
dry as is rosehips the autumn,
yet thorned as cones and cages,
reminding of snow on mountains,
were restless volcanoes sleep,
and birds question the pillar of their flock.
