I sit beneath the willow tree
That wilted, weeping, widow’s tree
That messy, mournful, martyr’s tree
Wishing for a better me.

I am the boughs, so bent and beaten
Desperate, derailed, defeated
Without respite, the worst repeated:
“Failed again, you failed again.”

Once, I was the vibrant green,
A softly serendipitous scene
With smiles now so seldom seen
That one day, might be found again.

I lay within the willow’s shade,
To wait and watch and let her sway,
She holds me in her vined embrace,
And says my goodness still remains.

Plump ripe fruit
taken from the vine with a bit of guilt
is it better to turn her into pie
or let it rot and wilt?
I am unnaturally and unnecessarily human
made of sugar and spice
surely this berry would be of more use
fallen on the floor with the bugs and the mice.