There's something about
an old weeping willow.
Wanna lie underneath
hugging my pillow

listening to branches
sway in the breeze,
leaves rustling together
in old willow trees.

They work like wind chimes,
create a whispery tune:
"rest...rest..." sighs the willow
'neath a bright summer moon.

Makeshift little tent
with your branches that weep,
you're the perfect place
for a weary girl to sleep.
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