Would you like to know why I like weeping willows?

Their storybook of sadness.
Like each swooping string of foliage is a dismal memory left to mourn.
How many are there, how many layers does that one tree contain?
I think that one could spend their whole life counting.

Their mystery underneath.
As a child I would always want to go inside the mass of limbs.
What would it be like to be surrounded by those eaves, shielded from the outside?
I would imagine it being a whole other world, one I could live in forever and be happy.

Their beauty.
In all their grief, I see glory.
In all their depth and history there is something greater to be revered.
In their sadness is brilliance.

And I also think that's why I like people.