Imagination

 

Do you remember when you were four, or maybe six,

it was summer

and you entered that empty room –

that wonderful space 

beneath the weeping willow?

 

Long strips of rippled green

hung in a circle around you -

a dancing wall when the breeze blew,

it waved the sunlight into shadows

and cooled your body

and you said,

“Let’s play house,” or

“This is my fort,” and

“No one can find me here.”

 

Shivers of excitement ran down your spine

filling the air with a sense

that something

was going to happen – right here

and you were in it

whatever it was.

 

You waited and watched

and while you waited

you discovered a way to make rope.

You braided stems and leaves

then tied the curtains of green back,

but everyone could see you

so you untied the curtains

and made a belt instead.

 

You found a sharp twig

that would make a good knife

but when you tried to dig the soil

the blade broke

so you pretended it was a pen

and that you could write.

You made up stories, lots of them,

and they were so good,

that you scared yourself

out from under that tree.

 

You never could go in there again.

It was too darned spooky.

 

Claude Monet’s Weeping Willow, 1919 – Google images