Weeping Willow

Spring is sneaking in. I have holed up in my house researching death and aggression. I've driven in rain, wind and snow, reaching for my lofty goals, and didn't even notice that my weeping willow trees are greening up for the summer! I love these trees. They are as old as the house they protect (it was built during the depression), and sometimes, if I sit quietly enough, they whisper their secrets to me, over the sweet music of birds chirping in the background. On hot summer days I love to lie under their protecting boughs while I dream about adventures I'll never live, and lives I'll never know. When I was a child, I would grasp an armful of branches and swing from one side of the yard to the other, with the most pathetic Tarzan yell in the whole neighborhood! I don't remember life without weeping willow trees. I can't imagine life without them. I aspire to be like these magnificant giants; graceful and stong. They bend in the wind when other trees snap. They don't succomb to the freeze of winter until most other trees have long since gone dormant, and then recover from the depths of winter long before other trees think to bloom. They're my friends. Maybe someday, someone will lie beneath them, and listen quietly enough to hear them tell the secrets I have shared.