The trunks of trees, 

Pneumatic tubes

Dispatching sorrows

That fertilized the soil, 

So that leaves get to hear

Of all the human toil

Expended in vain, 

In a monotone

Repetitive refrain. 

 

But the willow, 

Wind-whipped though

It may be, to also

Eavesdrop it persists 

On all those wishes

Saturating the air,

The midnight confidences

Of the nearly-broken

Who may want more

Than what's on offer. 

 

Yet the willow

Knows the end result, 

And for this dissonance, 

In sympathy and amity, 

Wordless, it weeps.