Five minutes, uncensored, for the sake of writing.
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GO
I would escape beneath its bending branches
at recess.
Everybody else could have the swings
and the teeter-totters.
There was no place like the haven
of the Weeping Willow.
I could pull on its branches
that swept the ground
and still they would not break.
They could bare my weight with ease.
I could disappear into its leaves,
safe near the trunk of this tree
and be me, vulnerable and free.
I loved that Willow tree.
It was my friend.
Like the way Shel Silverstein personified
The Giving Tree...
that tree - was my shelter and refuge.
There I could dream
and pretend
and believe in the magic of living.
I could be anything and everything.
I could be alone or with other friends
who embraced the Willow's dare
to see more and be more.
Like Lucy who entered the wardrobe,
I was transported between the sway
of tearful twigs.
Imagination was alive,
and so was I.
Six years old and four feet tall;
underneath the blessing of a tree.
STOP