The willow tree

As you walk down the dirt path, past the tall green trees, I hope you remember who you are when you reach the willow tree. You will inevitably get lost, confused in the woods, struggling to find your way to the willow. When the light dims, the whoos and coos of owls and other nameless creatures will hymn in your ear, distracting you from the overcompensation of your own voice a light whisper of overthinking, a gentle pluck of uncertainty. The journey is long and weary, more mournful for the woods you walk than eager for the destination ahead. With fleet, you fall, but with glory, you rise again and again proving you know what you want. Unsure of what lies at your destination, you remain purely hopeful, your mind already hanging by the tips of the lanceolate leaves. The sun fades to moonlight, and you stand in the quiet presence of a single thought a dream that lingered through the walking and the withering. Thankful for sight, eager never to turn your back to the wilderness, for you have reached nature.