I never seen it before, just only in pictures, but that’s not the same, the same as being somewhere.

To really see something you have to be there.

Like those willows bowing under the blanket of its pillowy weight.

Watch it fall like cotton from the white sky and wonder if that’s where it got its color.

It only tastes like something that was there and then wasn’t.

There’s nothing to hear except the sounds of birds chirp from tree to tree.

What kind are they that didn’t go south where I used to be?

If they fly and don’t leave tracks like me, are they really here?

I am like the soft nod of willows.