The Man Atop A Tree

I must've seen this man atop a tree. He spoke to me so eloquently with the tunes of a melody played by the whistling, withering willow tree. Beautifully, he sang to me. He sang to me so beautifully. Was it this man atop a tree that I had seen sing down to me? I wish I were this man poised atop this tree, for then I'd see it to sing so methodically. In the whispering winds did I hear this man sing. He called out so heavenly, what would it bring? So there she sat 'neath the shade of that withering willow, of which it willfully paraded chimes above her to hide the sun, though not the sound. And she whistled with the tree a tune with hopes to stand this man upon the ground. And, so they sang together, yet she sat alone. "Boisterous man atop my head, will you come down before you end up dead?" Her voice was elegant, though soft and smooth, like the tree bark the wind had chewed. And still this man unmoved, but atop a tree, sung his tune through and through. What must it be to this man in the tree that he would sing so beautifully? I pondered this question as I sat and stared definitively. Could it be, this man atop and woman beneath a tree, that they sang a touching 'ode to divinity? O', that tree that must've been made from gold and ivory. One could waltz to the slow and soothing remedy that seeped from their sweet harmony. I would dance if I were not the narrator of this story. I'll tell you honestly. Told may it be by me that what I see keeps me from being sold to do so. And it may be told a thousand different ways, a different many ways it could be told. There are a plethora of told ways that different stories could sell or hold. I hold this one for you, and allow me to tell it, rather than sell it, in a way it can be held, remembered, and fastened like this scene in front of me - a scene I've seen again and again throughout eternity. The man atop the tree. I wish a wish upon a star. I wished that this star would grant my wish, and I wished again just like this: I wish this star to grant a wish, so I'll wish once more exactly like this. Wish I may, wish I might, might my wish come true tonight? What could that wish be, but a wish to be granted. I'm wishing, you see, for this star to grant for me this wish exactly. No, could it be that the stars do not exist? So, my wish is seen like this - a man perched, he exists as the vocalist. Be it that he exists, and as such as a vocalist that sings atop this... a tree. So loosen the tongue and join these two. Be like me and the very few - where the serpent speaks, yet is not heard. We hear sounds above the birds. Loose-leaf serpentine spiraling songs sung at the top of that ol' tree 'neath the sun. She does not beg. I can see for certain, but she pleads, nonetheless. The story told of the man atop a tree, and the woman - whom is me. TBC...