I remember the day we planted the willow trees in my front yard. The balmy breeze was a relief as the sun stared down through the humid air. One of those days where you'd rather walk or bike to the store than drive because the seats would burn your back.
Years have passed, and I've barely payed them any mind. The repetitive motions of departing quickly and collapsing into a ball of tired back-ache upon arrival have left me blind to their beauty.
For the first time in years, I walked around my front yard. So accustomed to the seclusion of the back during great times of beer and bonfires, the passing cars brought a feeling of contempt. Curses of living on a main road, curses of being born too late.
For the first time in years, I noticed that they were no longer just above my head. Their branches stretching high above the power lines, the ones closest to the sun keeping the others from fully developing.
My own quasi-reality has distracted me from the true reality enveloping me. This has gotten out of hand and gone on long enough.
I need to work on my priorities.