Sister is a willow. Bending, bowing to the thoughts and refuge of the forest.

An original? May-be. But the sapling is still meek, and is swallowed by the foliage,

consenting as natural as photosynthesis, my beloved companion disperses seed by seed.

The year is young, the seasons unchanged, the Willow keeps her security,

breathing convincingly in tandem with the breeze.

A whisper of what is to come lingers on the nip of the air,

yet individual survival still drifts in the balance.

Will the Willow remain as she is now,

or forever don an overgrown mask, striving for her veins to run true?