it was early in the morning,
about 8 a.m.
my feet and the concrete are the only thing i hear as i walk to my car.
it's still.
quiet.
quite odd, honestly.
settling into the drivers seat, i take a minute to evaluate my surroundings.
my willow tree is my favorite thing to look at, it's so.. willowy.
a dirty blue swing hangs from the branch,
slightly swaying from the wind.
i've heard that someone died here in my home,
a long time ago though.
but there's been this feeling that i can't get away from,
that that person swings there all day,
and all night.
YOU ARE READING
Berry Tree
PoetryA book of poems, scrambled thoughts, and endless stories. A bit mysterious, but that's the fun of it. You make the story; you imagine, and wonder. Each page is like picking a new berry from a tree.
