A lonely willow stands by the silent pond, Its branches tracing verses on the water’s glass. A traveler pauses, hearing ancient tales, Of moonlit vows and seasons come to pass. Petals drift like memories on the breeze, Each one a story waiting to be told. The wind composes poems through the leaves— A symphony in green and threads of gold. Dusk descends with brushes dipped in hue, Painting whispers between the earth and sky. The willow keeps its vigil, steadfast, true, Guardian of dreams as ce...
