The Weeping Willows

November 20, 2007
By
The Weeping Willows

The moon flies up on the cold, still night,
The willows rise up, welcomed warm and bright.
Never seem sad, they come right through,
Trotting through the grass, in sweet cold dew.

They stroll up the stones, though they looked like stairs,
Up to a stage, where performance was scarce.
Though others laugh at their performance sight,
They stand their own ground, high with might.

The fans all around sit in comfy chairs,
You could faintly hear the swift, thin air.
The willows breathe in, ready to sing,
Then starts the band, then a soft joyful ring.

The sopranos start in a melody tune,
Then altos step in, making soft, deep booms.
Tenors and altos sing "Joy to the World,"
They all bow down, and the audience whirled.

We clap and cheer like loud sirens,
The willows surely then decided.
One more piece could be played,
For the sun almost rose, the beginning of the day.

They heard of a song called "The Golden Afternoon,"
So they sang their hearts out, yet still stayed in tune.
It told of the flowers, the sweet, sad stories,
The world of romance, including the morning glories.

Silence fell all around the wood,
Many cried their eyes out, like crowds should.
The willows slowly stroll down, a flower in hand,
They cried in happiness for all the land.

A performance like that could never be beaten,
Not even form the sweet apples we have eaten.
Every night they perform the same,
Then weep, and that's how they got their name.





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