When I was a child, I loved a willow tree. She embraced me with cascading,
filtered-green light, offered me a haven where butterflies were fairies & sprites, hid me
when I tried to make willow bark tea (Stirred leaves and bark in hot water. Sipped. And spit.)
Willow fed my soul, allowed me to peek out at the world. Observe. Safely retreat.
Late fall, I'd watch her golden sheen hang on far longer than most; I liked to think
because she would miss me. I know I missed her.
I turn fifty this November. Contemplate time upon a park bench as Autumn's bounty slowly fades, falls. Admire near perfection; for there is no willow tree in sight. Perhaps I will find her
before season's end, say hello once again to wood-nymphs and anglewings.
by Margaret Bednar, November 8, 2015
A willow tree, in my minds eye, is the grandest of trees. I'd have to say the Southern Live Oak is my second favorite tree with it's wide spread and heavy branches .
This is linked with "Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - The Eye of the Beholder - Micro Poetry" I chose free verse, and the poem must be written in 10 lines. I did it in 9 LONG lines. Not exactly micro I'm afraid.