A lone willow bends by the silent river, Its branches tracing secrets on the water’s glass. Once, a poet knelt here, heart all a-quiver, Penning verses on time that too soon would pass. He spoke of moonlit nights and autumn’s gold, Of love found fragile, like a butterfly’s wing. The ink flowed dark, a story to be told, As crickets paused their summer songs to sing. Now years have gone; the scrolls are dust and air, But the tree remembers every word he gave. When wind blows through, it whisper...
