I remember sitting under the willow tree,
the one with the shaggy branches
like strands of hair
that twisted and tangled in the wind.
We tossed rocks into the water,
attempting to make them skip, but failing.
Each landed with a soft plop,
sometimes splashing our muddy, bruised legs
before sinking to the dirt-packed bottom
taking our cares with it
and burying them among the weeds.

I remember kneeling under the willow tree,
the one with the spidery roots
that reached for our legs, yearning to wrap
around our ankles like wooden shackles,
and the hollowed center
that threatened to swallow us.
Light could not—would not—
penetrate it's web of leaves and twigs,
leaving us draped in the shadow
of the bowed branches.

I remember standing under the willow tree,
the one with the chilling view of the unstirring lake
which we had so few chances to behold.

I remember leaning against the willow tree,
the one with the gnarled trunk and the peeling bark,
that took one look at me, sighed, and said
"Soon."
The limp branches with browning leaves,
wilted and shriveled, as if the sun turned away
until the life was nearly drained.

Now I rest under the willow tree,
the one you visit sometimes.
The one where we sat, throwing stones
that splashed and plunked and sunk.
The one I now have time to truly see,
each leaf falling steadily
before it will abandon me.