Willow

Sometimes I watch the fog floating on a hazy forest breeze. I admire the way it flows through the trees and over the mossy stones beneath my feet. The rain-kissed wind whispers in my ear. I can’t quite understand it, but I know it tells me stories of the willow groves from which it came. If I lie down and look towards the canopy, I can see the fog dancing with the leaves. It’s soft and slow, spending a little time with each leaf before floating onto the next, but always leaving a touch of itself behind — a memory that will drop to the floor, nourishing the ferns, wildflowers, and mushrooms. I believe my heart is a forest, and each experience is a limb of my infinite trees. I like the fog. I like the way it touches every one of my leaves and creates these nourishing raindrop memories — memories that I can’t help but replay in my dreams. Memories that I wish I could capture forever. Maybe with enough of them, the raindrops will grow a new willow grove. I can already feel them growing in