Upon its border.
In the distance thunder rolling
but sun still beating down
upon a brow, sweating, swollen
and a cow pulling the plow.
And the seeds hit turned up earth
upon a field of black earth rows
where the sun silently surrenders
to the rain filled pouring showers.
On the edge of frog filled fosse
stands the willow, reaching strains
towards the fields were seeds are sprouting
into rows of pips and grains.
Its silent tears are lost in flurries
of wind and rain, indifference
farmer doesn't care for worries
outside its fields and borders fence.
Feed and milk the cows and goats
and gather eggs of chickens, geese
guide the waters from the moats
to spray upon the fields.
His worries are the pips and grains
will they grow and will they yield
the silos full to sell and gain
and family in winter shield.
And the willow keeps on weeping
through the seasons, warm and cold
where its tears with rain keep seeping
and its sorrow stays untold.
Who cares for just a doleful willow
come the thunder hit and split
but still its greens so woeful billow
never giving up its wit.
Frog in the fosse.
The frog looks up
to sky, sun, blue
no clouds there stain
but never wonders
where the drops come from
if not from falling rain.
Doesn't see
and doesn't care
for the willow's tears and cries
its only worry
if its tongue will reach
the buzzing flies.
2014 © Daniel L. Raven [Count Daniël Luchies]