Beneath the Weeping Willow

The willow’s tears fall upward,
each droplet a universe
where gravity remembers
how to dance with forgotten dreams.

Her branches write elegies
in languages made of shadow and bone,
while roots drink deeply
from pools of liquified memories
that taste of childhood’s last summer.

Time braids itself into knots
beneath her swaying hair,
where yesterday and tomorrow
exchange skin like serpents
shedding centuries.

Here, sadness crystallizes
into prismatic butterflies
whose wings are stained
with the ink of unwritten letters
to people who never existed.

The earth beneath pulses
with heartbeats of ancient storms,
while mushrooms sprout
wearing caps made of compressed twilight
and gills that breathe in secrets
exhaled by dying stars.

Phantom children swing
from ropes woven from silence,
their laughter echoing backwards
through corridors of maybe,
where possibilities rust
like abandoned clockwork toys.

The willow whispers algorithms
of loneliness to passing ghosts,
her leaves transcribing symphonies
composed of rain that falls
in every direction except down.

Beneath her canopy,
reality dissolves into watercolor wounds
that bloom into gardens
of metallic flowers
whose petals taste of static
and morning fog.

And in the spaces
between her trailing tendrils,
mirrors grow wild,
reflecting versions of yourself
that chose different fears
to fall in love with.

Time pools here,
thick as honey made from
distilled moonlight,
while the willow weeps
for futures that forgot
how to become present,
and presents that never learned
how to let go of their past.

In her shadow,
even darkness has shadows,
and silence comes in colors
only blind prophets can name.