sometimes stories are let loose from sources like the leaves of the willow from its electric branches. the mind fondles them and twists them into memories. a ball of yarn and then with years, begins the slow unraveling, a heavy line, weakens its weight and leaves a weave untangled. its when in my old silver yeas of swaying and rocking before the window that overlooks the willow in the yard and the crooked backs of men, i may not remember what was the story of my love at all. it may be so far gone as some faint whisper i'll hear calling, from behind the threshold of the backdoor as it opens with the wind. they too will fall away like those willow leaves to color the lawn with stories that play in my hair as it grows electric beneath the deep brown earth.