A tribute to Joyce Kilmer

I sit under this willow tree.
Its pendulous branchlets swaying
In concinnity around me,
spontaneously bestirring
a soliloquized pleasantry:
No measured words and rhymes I write
Could ever describe your beauty
Because fools never get it right
and” Poems are made by fools like me”
imperfect, conventional lines.
“But only God can make a tree”
creation of perfect design.
So I write down beneath this tree
these feeble lines of poetry.