The Willow Tree 2.2: The Sailor and His Bride

From those early spring days through the coolest of autumn evenings, he brought Carly back again and again. The boy's name was William. When I first heard her speak his name, I felt such pride at finally knowing it. He told her everyone else called him Bill but he loved the way she said his real name.

William had an excellent laugh, hearty and sincere, and Carly made him laugh a lot in those months. They brought picnics of roast beef sandwiches or bread and cheese. They flew a red kite a few times. They kissed. Light, brush on the lips kisses; warm, drawn out kisses; open mouth, in the middle of a laugh kisses; and deep, long, breathless kisses that ended with their arms wrapped around each other like one might float away if they both did not hold on tightly enough.

Winter came, as it always does. The winds turned icy and the ground grew hard. William and Carly stopped wandering my way. I did not see them until the following spring, a year since their first visit. They arrived on a sunny afternoon, when the field was dotted with purple lupines and the breeze was gentle once again. William wore a crisp, navy blue uniform. Until he was very near, he looked very much a grown man. Up close though, he was still a boy. Carly wore a simple, white dress that skimmed the grass under her feet. Her dark hair was set in thick ringlets. A silky white shawl covered her shoulders and she kept her arm tucked in the crook of William's elbow as they walked toward me.

My boughs were bending with the breeze, their buds beginning to open toward the sun. It is what I consider to be my prettiest state. As they came under my height, Carly ran her hand over a cluster of my lowest hanging branches. I could feel her fingers course over the bumps of my new leaves. The couple had eyes only for each other though - eyes intermittently wet with tears. They spoke in whispers and promises and caresses.

Eventually they were silent. Carly had her cheek against his chest. His arms held her around the waist and they swayed in a soothing rhythm all their own. Finally Carly spoke up again.

"We must get to the party. They will all be wondering why we haven't arrived."

"Let them wait." William answered firmly.

She lifted a hand to his cheek. "No, William. They all need to say goodbye, too. They all need to see us happy before they let you go."

He moved Carly's palm to his lips, planting a kiss there. "I love you."

"I love you."

The Willow Tree 2.1 - The Boy and His Girl

I recognized the boy from years before. He hadn't visited in a long while but there was no mistaking those round, brown eyes, tousled blonde hair, and crooked smile. I knew him in an instant and I was gladdened by his return.

"This used to be my favorite spot as a kid," he whispered to the girl who sat beside him, her head on his shoulder.

I'd suspected as much. He used to tramp through the long grasses of the field, stick in hand, to stop
under my branches. Sometimes he fought imaginary foes, swinging his stick like a mighty sword. On especially warm days, the boy laid beneath the shade I offered. He peered through the gaps of my leaves and boughs, winking at the sun.

A particularly happy memory for me was the time he stood beside me, his hand occasionally resting on my trunk, and recited again and again a wordy, lofty speech by someone named Shakespeare, or Puck perhaps. (These names I discerned from the boy's grumblings at moments when he lost his place.) I recall with delight the final recitation, when he delivered every line with clarity. His smile, his whoop of satisfaction. It was a fine day.

Now he has returned. Grown tall and muscular. His voice is richer yet still full of his younger self. And he has brought his girl. They sit against my trunk, their backs warming the bark. She is lovely; brown, thick hair reaching halfway down her back, cheeks and lips pink with happiness. He looks at her as at a jewel. It is early in spring, the sun only beginning to recover its heat after the long days and nights of winter. His girl - Carly, he calls her - snuggles closer under his arm and the smile on his face is perfect. The hum of their conversation blends with the breeze. It is steady, soothing, and confident, reminding me of a song a man sang once long ago as he walked along the stream to a destination unknown.

The boy and his girl stay until the field is afire with the sun dipping low and bright behind it. I hear Carly promise to come back again with him and I am filled with a share of the hope I see in the boy's face.

They do come back. They do, and I shall tell you what became of them.

The Willow Tree 1.1

I stand at the edge of a sloping field that turns golden in October. There is a narrow stream running nearby, near enough for me to enjoy its gurgling sounds and watch it flood its shallow banks each Spring. I have stood here for many years. So many years. I have grown tall and thick and old with my roots stretching for yards and yards beneath the grass and dirt

Though I've tried, I cannot remember the day I was planted. More than when, I have wondered whether it was on purpose. Did someone want me here, in this spot, for a reason particular to him? I have heard myself called a "weeping" willow. From the men, women, and children I have known, I've learned what it is to weep. I wish they would not call me that. I cannot weep. And truly, there has been only a single day that I wished I could weep.

The moments I have witnessed, the people I have been privileged to know; the memories of them all are hanging in my boughs. I fear they will be lost soon. I fear I will be gone. If you would sit with me a while and listen, I am longing to tell my stories.

Pictures & Words Day 31: A Month of Ordinary Moments

Photo/Writing Prompt: An Ordinary Moment

I began this Pictures & Words challenge for the month of July for one simple reason: to push myself to write on this blog with a greater and more consistent frequency. As taking pictures is among my favorite activities and writing prompts have recently joined that category as well, I knew this challenge would be enjoyable enough to give me a shot at following through. With a handful of skipped days, I can happily say the challenge was a success. For that reason alone, I'm proud of this month.

What makes it truly great though is the fact that I gained so much more than fulfilling that one goal. It was inevitable. Watching, waiting, seeking out the right shot, it was impossible not to be tuned into the exquisite world that surrounds me day after day. My hand wrapped around my camera and my eyes scanning the scenes I encountered, a thousand ordinary moments became worth capturing. The details typically left in the background, overlooked as I went about my days, came to the foreground, demanding my attention. Like that butterfly on the edge of the flowering bushes lining the sidewalk: where normally I'd only have eyes for the blue views of the lake, I now desired to notice the bits of beauty in its shadows.

Then to take these captured scenes and put them into writing. Such a joy! This month kicked my imagination into high gear. Especially the days that I wrote snippets of fictional stories to accompany the photos, it was such fun to surprise myself with what arose from examining the picture. The endeavor taught me there is a story to be extracted from absolutely any fragment of life. A friend recently asked me where I get my inspiration to write and all I could say, with a laugh, was "everywhere."

So, what do I want to say with these last lines of July 2016? Thank you. Thank you, readers, whomever you may be, for enjoying this month with me. Thank you for coming back again after your first visit to the blog. Thank you for pushing my monthly average views to the 900 to 1000 range. Thank you for taking a minute or two or five out of your day to read my creative ramblings. I can assure you that you have strengthened my belief these pursuits, no matter what comes of them professionally, are wonderfully worthwhile.

Pictures & Words Day 30: All This and More

Photo/Writing Prompt: Summer is...

Summer is sunbeams streaming down without regard for wisps of clouds trying to hold their own. Summer is heat and light. It is head tall cornfields, grass that is greener on every side, and rose perfume in the flower beds.

Summer is passion. It is fireflies behind the fire sides. It is kisses under moonlight. Summer is thunder and rain and the heavy calm that comes after.

Summer is regrowing, replanting, refreshing until all things are new. It is water soaked easiness. It is sand between toes with boats on the blue horizon.

Summer is bare shoulders burnt. It is the bittersweet build up to Fall, to relief from the warmth and hope for colors not green. It is all that you will not to end, knowing it cannot last.

Summer is all this and more.