Nature’s Comforting Presence

Oh whispering willow, 

how you allow me to be free,

I remember those bright summer days

when I’d sit under that wonderful tree.

No one else,

only me, myself, and I.

Back when I’d shove all my many thoughts aside,

or keep my mysteries pushed and packed inside.

Back when I’d sit under your tender but rough bark,

Your tree trunk is old, coffee colored, and dark.

Occasionally I’d lay my head to rest against your base, 

as though you were nothing, but a silk pillowcase.

After a while of enjoying the ambience,

I’d drift away and fall ever so deep,

into the purest slumber, an undoubtedly righteous sleep.

Oh, and those tiny dream makers who live in my mind?

They’d create comforting adventures, allowing me to unwind.  

My daydreams would foster crimes of creativity,

and in those moments I’d become lost,

Whether I was writing and painting

or merely sketching and erasing,

sculpting my future and ever internally changing. 

My nightmares would decrease and decrease,

my anxiety would always unexpectedly cease.

My depression would even refuse to come around,

much too scared to brave that happy battle ground. 

For the only true times I was ever happy,

‘twas when I was sitting under thee

you strong and beautiful willow tree.

Home to the nests and honeycombs,

of the beautiful birds and bumbling bees.  

So you see, the only times my laughter felt real,

were when my energy was practically transcendent. 

My experiences by that tree were surreal,

time was training me for a mind of incandescence. 

So if I feel lonely or upset, 

I’ll simply go to the lakes and the trees.

I’ll wander about the streams and the rivers,

I’ll meander along the ocean and embrace its calming breeze. 

Should I feel like I cannot go on any longer,

I’ll go ahead and speak to the moon or the sun.

Allowing them to cradle me with a bountiful love,

while I cry, for this life, has been one of deep fun. 

And while I use those summer days

to calm me down like taking some sort of pill,

I’ll get lost in the wild frill,

of everyday’s lively and adventurous thrill. 

When I grow tired at the end of each day

at the end of each week, month, or even year,

I’ll look out my tiny white colored windowsill.

I’ll look out and I’ll remember all my favorite places

I’ll reminisce and remember those strange spaces,

and the forgotten memories of yesterday,

will live on with my livelihood while I am buried.

And every one of those fun times will fade away into the background of this life

or perhaps they’ll live on in coexistence,

with the past lives my soul has carried.