Willow Tree

I used to know a boy who whispered to the willow tree.
He believed mother natures bellow got trapped in her leaves when the wind blew east,
forging a bear trap of childhood reminiscence -
a mirror to speak to.

I would watch earnestly over the hedge as he told her secrets the way kids do.
Peered as he carved intricate strokes into her belly and perched against her skin,
face blistered and cherry red.

He often shouted at her with the strength of a canyon,
shaking her matted hair and rattling the forest dwellers.
I wondered why she never left him.

Most nights he returned to place a bouquet of wildflowers on the crest of her trunk before rushing away, knowing she remain rooted.
Shielded by the cloak of night and guided by stars, his soft rhythmic footsteps became the woodlands heartbeat.

Once, I caught the boy asking for her hand in marriage;
to which she politely, yet firmly, responded with a scorching high-pitched westward whistle.
He stormed away, dragging the fog with him.

I even snuck away at dusk to plead with her,
offering visions of a life unchained.
Instead she remained stoic, awaiting the boy, and pondering why she was talking to a teenager
and me questioning my sanity.