The Weeping Willow

The Weeping Willow

A fountain caught in time,
but you spray no more.
I remember your strands like hair,
littering the road, floating in the wind.
Twisting up in lawn mowers,
on Sunday mornings.

They tore you down,
like many of your brethren,
making way for metal and concrete.
But now only a driveway
to a house that no longer stands,
and a for sale sign in your place.

Looking out my old bedroom window
I can still feel your silhouette.