Weeping Willow

The bark scratches at your back, crackled
and old, like varnish after it’s been burnt.
Soft green blades tickle your feet, and that
wet, earthy, crisp smell settles around you;
whispering youth.
The early morning dew stains the seat
of your pants, whilst your fingers
wrap around feathery catkins. Lips parted
to release a shallow breath; it paints the air,
dancing white mist before your eyes.

You hide in the long shadow, eyes fluttering
shut to the world, listening to the slow rush
of water inches from your feet; ignorant
to anything outside of this moment.