I met you while I was sinking deep in the cold breeze of January.
It was a fine day. It was nothing but ordinary, especially you, Mr. Willow tree.
You started to give shade and I gave in to the comforting darkness of your leaves.
The sun dived in to your branches and I found myself lost and deceived.
Mr. Willow tree, I was dead last February.
I was breathing heavily on the roots of your reality.
I picked up my pen again and again
And yet, again, nothing happened.
Mr. Willow tree, nobody told me you were not, even the slightest, sick.
A season was ending while I put back your leaves and sticks.
It took 90 days of cold winter nights.
It took one slumber of fear before I opened my eyes.
June and the smell of berries and memories.
I decided to tie a swing and made a promise.
I grasped my hands around the entwined ropes
I didn't budge, I was my own gyroscope.
You let me peek behind the trees
and there it was, a little rock.
I wore July and August like my favorite raincoat.
You thought it was funny "The rain will stop" I quote.
It did, the down pour turned into drizzle hitting the wind shield.
I watched each droplet form a hemisphere, to it, I went with.
In September, you wrapped me around your finger.
Dear Mr. Williow tree, you were there to watch me suffer.
Longs nights awaited, days passed ahead.
Was it self inflicted or did you just let me witness death?
I was, and still am, Mr. Willow tree
amazed by how you sucked every part of me.
From then on I found everything but glee.
It is a fine day; it is nothing but ordinary, especially you, Mr. Willow tree.