Beneath
this old willow tree,
shaded by the smell of leaves 
that were flirting with the nearby apple blossoms,
I sit encumbered by the weigh of its' boughs
as it requests my mind sift the morning colors.
 
It is distracting
me in a pleasant way,
making fun of my labor to confess,
my heart strings to your breast,
pen nuzzling to make amends on this paper from his brethren,
and laughing
at my quest
to rent in a somber manner.

Beseech me not,
I answer back, startled
by my small indignation and intent
quantifying the tone
emanating from my voice 
as I explain
my choice
to be so preoccupied.

I am on a true quest,
begun as assurance to my lover
she will become my wife
and has as is the way of moral manner,
when the former becomes the later,
to live with her my life.

To this clear plea
he says to me,
in the manner
that we sow, so shall we reap,
but please don't digress,
from the nature
of our company please keep
a kernel of the cause the union of my applet and me
will allow for you to see just how life will be together,  

O so the willow
will allow
a reverie,
his thought to provoke a question 
if his measure of both storm and weather 
is as it is for man and woman
as it is for the growing trees,
that the eons have blessed,
the humor in the hidden pattern for the willow tree and me
then time has made us free to be released as cosmic matter,
together and forever.