Signs of Love

Oh how I yearn
for the language of romance,
the tender words of love
and longing,
cried the Poet.
Even my mailbox is empty now.
The wind is my lover,
running his long fingers
over my slender branches.
He makes my leaves shiver
in the silver moonlight,
whispered the Willow.
I know he will be gone at dawn.
He came again to sing
to me with longing
in the garden last night.
The tall birch he had climbed
so many times
to reach my open window
died this spring,
cried the White Cat.