Something About The Trees

Something About Trees

         "I don't like them",  she cried. 
         "They're nothing like I expected",  the woman added.  "And they're not at all like you promised"
         The gardener lowered his head in shame.  The willows he spent the day planting caught a breeze and lapped at his face, as if to mock his decision to plant them.  They whipped at his beard scolding him.  Long slender branches struck out,  away from the lady,  toward his face and neck.  He is forced to strike back and take a large handful of fronds and hold them tightly in one hand;  his sweaty hat in the other hand fell to the ground. 
        Eventually the wind also caught the lady's graying hair and began to undo her elegant array piled atop of her head.  It wrecked such havoc that, in frustration,  turning, red faced,  she marched toward the large house across the garden from the willows.  She was vexed beyond words;  to the point of utter frustration.  A quick witted servant threw open the massive wooden doors which lead in to the dark insides of the large house then stood aside as the lady passed,  and then quickly pulled them closed behind her.
         "Get me a drink", she barked, then took place by the leaded panes of glass which formed a large window in the house's sitting room.  She stood,  lips pursed, eyes fine slits across her face until her husband delivered to her a finely cut glass filled with Scotch Whiskey.
         "What's got you in such a state",  he asked the lady.
         She did not face him.  His questioning irritated her further.  "Dearest?"
         "Oh,  they're not at all as I expected."