Weeping

In the meadow near the train tracks and the South Street Gate (I’m sure the meadow has a name and I’ll learn it sooner or later), there is a weeping willow. Today it strikes me as an odd name for this tree. It’s glorious, thriving in its location and mass producing new leaves, new growth, not as bright yellow as forsythia but bright enough to wake you up. Of the many feelings it engenders in me, weeping is not one.

I suppose I’m being overly literal here. Or perhaps I’m being too narrow in thinking about weeping. After all, I can imagine weeping with joy at the rebirth of spring. Or weeping with gratitude for so much in my life that is going well in these difficult times.

Hum, good points. So it’s a joyous weeping willow. Or it awaken joy - and gratitude - in me as I walk by. Works for me…