Weeping Willow

The tree always seemed tattered on the hollow ground. The ground there had never been fertile, yet the tree lived on throughout each year. It was dull and thick. In the summer, during rainshowers, it's leaves had no sheen. The branches were brittle and tended to arc a little more each day. There seemed to be a conspiracy against the tree. Nothing ever went there. No birds. No small animals. No young picnicing couples. It was pallid and alone. Each circle of bark on the tree had it's very own enigma. It's vivid past and fading future had little differentiation. When the sheenless summer rains would come, the puddles surrounding the empty tree conveyed pity. Not because no one was around, but because no one was around to see them. The slight sound of the raindrops clapping against the puddles seemed to echo all around the tree. From a distance, the raindrops could easily be mistaken for tears, but the tree could not cry.