Sonnet II
Weep, sad willow tree, bend green boughs, and weep.
Under wind’s weight, let your branches sway low.
Penetrating, reaching, your roots go deep,
Searching blindly, ache to find water’s flow.
Picturesque, planted in your remote field.
Lonely meadows in waving grass repose.
Sun-dappled undergrowth, shadows revealed,
Self-cast, far removed from stem, thorn, and rose.
For if these errant flora should draw near
To try to share your patch of fertile soil,
Though the sun shines warm and the air is clear,
Life tangles and perishes in your coil.
Beautiful you are, but doomed you will be
To stand alone, an island in the sea.
© Stacie Ferrante
1-14-2009
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