The weeping willow tree has gone into shock,

losing its leaves,

dropping into the water the discards

of an endless fight with the earth’s emotional tyranny.

It’s sad. It’s dying. It’s empty.

I watch from my terrace

unable to fix it.

I’ve been there but without the cushion of water

to catch my fall

from the betrayal and shock.

My leaves don’t fall,

they stand firm against me,

wet with memories and frailty.

I cannot shed my outer shell

to rebuild new growth. I am not made that way.

I watch leaves dive slowly into the pond

as frogs jump onto the eviction of shade.

I know that the tearing of lifelessness can seem painful.

It tries to hang on each branch for as long as possible

and then it lets go of life

pouring into the vastness of loss.

Beauty resurfaces in the tiny presence of hope

that springs into the green of each shade of leaves.

I can witness the miracle.

I can justify its birth.

I can only wish to be that new rise of faith

that nature recycles with each organism.