A Hollow Willow

The willow watches - another one, steps heavy with despair.

They reach her, press hurt into the bark as they cry.

Branches move to embrace and offer her care,

Dim the harsh light stinging in their eyes.

Her strong trunk provides comfort

for wounded souls who wander her way.

They always say: “You’re one of a sort,

with you, all the pain just fades away.”

She stands silent; they don't seek words,

buries their ache under her skin.

It presses back - goodness, it hurts!

Her hollow spot grows, bites deeper within.

No one lingers, their faces change fast,

But the marks they've carved refuse to fade.

Some of them rush, others glance past.

No one inquires if the willow is okay.

Perhaps she waited for someone to spot

that constantly giving took away too much

And someone’s hands, calloused or soft,

would return the healing, soothing touch.

She held on long years, and little by little,

others' troubles infected her wood.

Where were they, then, all of those who "need her",

When it spread out and ate through her roots?