There's an old wooded grove near my house-ancient elms and oaks abound-weeping willow its branches hugging the ground.
Moss covered stumps were mushrooms pop about - fainted smell of a musk deer dots the air, magical sounds that only a child could hear. As a small boy I run through these woods, hiding under the willow until it was time for me to wander home.
Those woods are still there unchanged by time, the willow branches still hug the ground. A careful look through the hanging arms of my favorite tree how small my hiding place looks now to me.
So many memories lost on this ground, a king for a day a knight at sun rise. I remember sitting and peeking about bright eyes and playful stick in hand, marking my place in the sandy black earth under the willow crown.
As we grow old some memories do fade but not those of hiding under the willow all day.
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Harold M. Nash
thank you Eugene for your comment,
Stay well,
Ankin
the read!
"As we grow old some memories do fade but not those of hiding under the willow all day." Timely and appreciated! Be encouraged Eugene!
Much Love,
Maregaret
bought one anyway. It is doing pretty well. You, on the other hand, have done v e r y well. I enjoyed this so much. Get glimpses of between the leaves on those beautiful trailing branches. Thank you
for sharing this! Blessings. . .always and then, 'Pea'
In Christs Love
Michelle~
is the talent to return to youthful things.
Thanks for taking us along, Eugene.
-gene.
Bobbi