Losing Ground

I don't know, I kind of like this little poem:

"Get ready," whispered the Willow
to the Hollow Oak outside
whose magnificent leaves splashed
its colors far and wide

"The Gale is coming, it can
no longer wait."
"Why?" shuddered the Oak, deeply
saddened by its fate.

"I did nothing wrong, but the
wind howels so.
It would not be so bad, if I
could just take my roots and go."

"Don't be silly," snapped the Willow
and its proud stubborn vines,
"the Gale planted the seed of life
on the Earth from which you whine."

"Perhaps," pondered the Hollow Oak
"but which Gale decided to growl?
The gentle wind from the South, or the
icy North who is so foul?"

"The North of course," said the Willow
"but it shouldn't be so bad. Although
you're not me, so the experience
may not be like I had."

Suddenly the Oak rustled, it's leaves
began to shed.
They were plucked down painfully,
filling the Oak with dread.

It gained momentum and
shook the Oak to its core.
It whistled and screamed in
its rage and it roared.

Much of its meaning was lost.
To the Oak it meant nothing more,
but to dream of a place
that is worth pining for.

As the wind died down, the
Hollow Oaks' branches showed bare,
and it was no surprise that the
Willow's leaves were still there.

Little by little, the Hollow Oak's
roots came undone
as the Willow wept silently
for what is never mentioned.