Time drags its feet towards the hour
but patient is the love in me
that sits beneath a willow tree
united with its silent weep.
And how it sweeps across the land
as if my presence disavowed
but should I cease to wait and weep
what of that silent Willow tree?
Will it stand up with righteousness,
be puffed up with morality,
or will it bend with sweep and weep
lonely for the love in me?
To loneliness, my friend, indeed
‘tis so before the hour is struck
and all who thought to wait and weep
have left for pasture new ~
or perhaps upon a cloud they’ll float
lonely too without you.
Clouds or trees; should I believe
it matters where I choose to be
until, until, time finally
settles on the hour?