My old friend
A ninety-five year-old weeping willow tree is growing in my front yard. It stands perfectly centered in between my house, and my in-ground swimming pool. The base of its trunk leaves the ground at a slight angle, giving the impression that it's leaning forward. The surrounding ground is uneven and bumpy with roots weaving in and out of the earth, as if they are seeking a breath of fresh air. Unlike the rough and deeply grooved surface usually associated with trees; my tree's bark is smoother, and pimple like with sections scaling off in sheets. The actual trunk is only eight feet tall, and not very wide, but the height and span of the branches shoot out to twice that size, making it top-heavy. Although not an enormous tree, it do
A telltale sign of the season yet to come, the tree perfumes the air with the slightest movement. Having been stripped of everything, its limbs are barren and jagged. Lush and green, it stands tall and proud. Chirping and singing can be heard from early morning until late at night. Acting as an umbrella, it provides cooling shade for flora and fauna from the hot sun. The birds welcome the tree's return, and build new nests in its sweetly scented arms. Full of activity and sound, it has become somewhat of an airport, as the birds continuously fly in and out of its thick foliage. Eager to gain strength, thirsty roots drink springtime showers from the warming ground. Previous monotones of gray change to various shades of vivid color. It is physically present, yet somehow absent at the same time. While tender young leaves unfurl from their tight cocoons, the branches explode with astounding colors. The tree is full of hope, and emulates the happiness of new life In the summer, the willow tree reaches its full glory. As the oldest and wisest vegetation, it demands seniority from the surrounding landscape. The branches reach out high, tickling the power lines above it. Over the course of one year, my weeping willow tree takes on multiple faces, demonstrating the circle of life.
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