Rows of weeping willows thrive away from ponds, each seeming to tell a story. Most are tent-shaped, others open gnarled welcoming arms. An elderly tree with a twisted divided trunk, a manifest split in the self, yet bearing dense foliage, reminds me of couples who have weathered storms and managed to remain united and flourish while spreading independent branches.

My favorite is an imposing weeping willow with limbs falling like an upturned umbrella, leaves swaying like a pleated skirt, or drapes rippled by the wind. I step inside, invading the sacredness of this space where bark bears marks like inscriptions left by lovers. As a child, I would have loved to hide under the leafy dome’s shade and spy on people resting on benches, stopping to light a cigarette or check their iPhones.

A locus amoenus where hungry star-crossed lovers satiate unfulfilled desires, a haven only encountered in dreams amid a bustling avenue surrounded by passersby staring at their wristwatches, busy to make a living, worried about their next meeting, or returning home to fix supper.

Unseen in that secluded space, time stops while lovers drink from each other’s lips a few drops of ambrosia in the middle of the afternoon.