Imagine an old willow tree nestled right beside a trickling brook. That's my favorite spot. The old tree sits just a few feet behind the bank, allowing you to dip your toes in the chilly, clear water. Thousands of shimmering silver fish dart in and out of the colorful bedrock. The breeze that blows that sickly sweet wood smell fills up your senses, its almost overwhelming. Always take fruit with you to my favorite spot. Crunchy red apples, the crisp taste dancing on your taste buds as the juice dribbles down your chin and making your skin sticky or sour raspberries so tart that you pucker your lips in enjoyment. The old bark worn from the multiple times you've leaned your gentle touch against it, and all you can see is life bounding around you.
YOU ARE READING
Tea Time
PoetryJust a collection of poems and short stories you may choose to read or not.
