I am a willow tree.
I can grow and change, but I crave nourishment and a bantam thrust to do so. 
I make for good company, both day and night.
I love nothing more than to listen, sans judgment and arbitration.
Occasionally I have trouble with change; my body struggles to react as the world deviates around my flimsy limbs.
I desire the sun, the burning ball of fire that sparks my sentiment.
I absorb light and information effortlessly; my many branches help me learn to appreciate the different angles of this wild world.
As winter conflict approaches, I hide in fear of adjustment.
My leaves fall off; I am isolated and alone.
I do not like to feel different, but I understand that it is inevitable.
I am long and lanky; my spine lined with ridged vertebrae and my span stretched far beyond most.
My hair drips long, and paper thin, over my narrow shoulders.
My trunk is strong and sturdy, as it is most important for me to hold onto my roots.
I cling to tradition like children hold hopelessly to their mothers’ hands;
I refuse to let go.
I am reliable and versatile, yet not at all ostentatious.
Often, I sit quietly unnoticed in the background, though I am constant.
I am warm and welcoming, bashful and still.
At times, I imagine running away.
But here I am; grounded.
I am a Willow Tree and I will remain this way forever.