Willow yellow

Wrapped in the willow yellow of the spring, caught and held in her glorious, greening gold, I pause to watch the willow waltz and sing here where buds break free and leaves unfold. Whoever named this tree a weeping willow must not have heard the song of willow yellow. I know her yellow song will yield to green then change to other colors with the frost. Her leaves will fall like tears; still she will lean into another song. No song is lost. In all her many moods, I've never found her in despair, whether still or leaping. From cloud-fringed fronds to twigs that touch the ground, I've found her always singing -- never weeping

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