The Willow Remembers

Written for a friend still holding on to a love she can no longer restore.

Definitely not a willow tree, but the photo turned out too good not to use.

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There’s a willow tree not far from the river bend, thin branches bowing low each time the hard winds descend.

I used to think strength looked stern, unmoving, proud, like ancient oaks standing tall against the roaring crowd.

But the willow survives differently beneath the darkened sky, it bends when storms arrive instead of asking why.

Its leaves tremble quietly through the heavy rain, yet morning always finds it standing there again.

I wonder how long a thing can soften without breaking apart, how much silence can settle inside an aching heart.

There are seasons where the branches hang lower than before, where the roots hold tightly to what they cannot restore.

Still, the willow remains beside the restless stream, guarding old reflections like fragments of a dream.

Perhaps love is not always loud enough to save, perhaps some hearts grow tired from learning how to behave.

So they bend around loneliness, around grief left unnamed, around words swallowed whole and tenderness untamed.

And maybe that is its own kind of sorrow to endure, to remain standing faithfully while nothing feels secure.

Yet the willow knows something I am only learning now: survival is not weakness simply because it learns to bow.

For even the saddest trees continue reaching toward the light, though their branches have grown heavy from surviving every night.

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ꨄ︎ I've always been fascinated by willow trees and what they symbolize. Though I’ve never seen one in person, I’ve always found myself in awe of their haunting beauty.

May this poem linger gently like willow leaves in the wind.