I've seen a weeping willow tree, branches swaying in the breeze.
Weeping not now, in fact he seems almost happy to be alive. The light wind sighs through his branches, playing havoc with his neat, ordered 'do. But that is no problem, for he loves the wind and the birds that fly by, having watched them through his years.
Golden light shines down, bathing the tree in evening sunshine. Solemn, now, a wise tree whose thick truck bespeaks strength and age. No other tree is comparable to the weeping willow.
And finally, when the sun sets and the thin moon, like a pale knife blade, rises, he weeps. He weeps for things that were, are, and will be, for he knows them. The wind will stay, but the birds will die. The jolly grass that laughs during the day, it will wither with the cold breath of winter.
If one happens to walk under his majestic branches, letting the cool yellow branches brush their face lightly, at any time of day they will feel the heart and soul of the tree. The joy and the pain, life and death, the spirit of the weeping willow.
He is a willow tree, yet more.