The willow sits
Freely and spirited,
Swishing away
For another
Night, and another morn.
There lays she
Writing away in
Her journal,
Underneath the whispy
Branches of the willow.
One course of creativity
To stay under this tree.
She looks up at the clear
Blue sky, she stares down
At the clear blue sea;
Something is adrift in her.
She forgot her new pen,
But the old one
Works just as well.
