Tucked into the folds of water-threaded plains lies a philosophy of life—three centuries of unbroken whispers between humanity and the willow s along the canal banks.

This craft took root in the willow groves of Ming Dynasty漕运码头 (canal wharves). Back then, the trackers who hauled boats along the water believed “willow s guard the currents.” On their deathbeds, they’d beg for a “water bed” woven from shoreline willow s, trusting it would carry their souls home via the river’s flow. Today, Old Man Zhang’s great-grandfather’s rule endures: only harvest “sun-slope willow s” before Guyu, the Grain Rain. These must be three-year-old branches—their sun-kissed sides gleam with a bronze-green, the shaded edges soft as milk, as if cupping light from two seasons. When cutting, use a crescent-bladed willow knife; the slash must angle gently. “Let the sap bleed slow,” Old Man Zhang mutters to new buds as he sharpens his blade in the grove. “Don’t bruise the roots.”

Processing the willow s is a dialogue with water. Freshly cut, they soak seven days in a canal-side pond, its silt-darkened water sweet with the earth’s breath. Fished out, they spread on wheat-straw banks—sunned three quarters of an hour at dawn, aired half an hour at dusk—letting sunlight nibble away their raw green. Dried, they glow amber; in your palm, their fibers pulse faintly, as if still breathing. “Now they’ve made peace with the soil,” Old Man Zhang says.

Weaving days demand an empty stomach. Not out of ritual, but to keep stale breath from tainting the work. The opening “Suoxin Knot” (Locking Heart Knot) is a study in care: left hand gripping three branch roots, right thumb coiling tips clockwise thrice, then yanking back halfway on the fourth turn, leaving a sliver of space. “A breath for the departed,” he murmurs, his tape-wrapped fingers moving like birds. “No need to rush.” Sweat beads on his brow, dropping to the frame, blooming into dark spots like punctuation on a page.

The “Langhua Pattern” (Wave Pattern) along the midsection mirrors the canal’s mood. Where the eastern grove bends sharp, the weave tightens; where the west runs smooth, it unfurls like silk. His master once took him to watch moonlit ripples. “Rapids hide calm, stillness hums with force—just like a life,” he’d said. For thirty years, Old Man Zhang has woven that truth; run a hand over the pattern, and you’ll feel the river’s quiet persistence.

The closing “Huihun Edge” (Returning Soul Border) is a gift to the living. Each branch tip curls into a loop, then tucks into another’s embrace, hidden away. “So they know someone’s holding on,” he says. For Granny Wang’s coffin, he slipped a red willow twig in the southeast corner—a relic from her courtship, when she and her love had carved initials into its bark, decades ago.

Inside, the coffin holds the seasons: late-spring mint, half-dried, cool as a breeze; autumn chrysanthemums, clustered, sweet with frost; Dragon Boat Festival wormwood, wilted by dew, its scent sunk deep in stems, seeping slow. “A life tastes all green things,” Old Man Zhang says. “Should carry that flavor going home.”

Some scoff at its lightness. “Can’t anchor a soul,” they say. He pulls a photo from his chest: last year, during a grave move, a Republican-era willow coffin crumbled into a brown net—yet three plump wheat seeds nested in its weave. Planted, they sprouted into stalks with heavier ears than any other. “This isn’t a box for death,” the archaeologists marveled. “It’s a cradle for going on.”

Granny Wang’s funeral dawned foggy. Eight men bore the coffin across the stone bridge; mist seeped through willow gaps, pooling at their feet like white lambs. Her granddaughter stroked the wood, sobbing. “It’s just like her old basket,” she said. “The one she used to fill with mulberries—purple juice stained the willow s, same as this. It feels like… carrying a whole summer.”

Old Man Zhang stood by the grove, watching the amber shape vanish into wheat. Wind stirred: new-cut willow s rolled at his feet, cool with dew; old trees rustled, their leaves murmuring like a thousand hands, patting soft. He smiled. This coffin wasn’t an end. It was a life, shedding skin, donning willow , following the river back to where it started.

And the canal flows on, carrying willow songs, year after year.

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