Willow, oak, ivy, lotus, pine. Those green shapes keep looping in dreams. They’re the vines that never unravels, the trees that watch the moon, the seeds that sigh. If your rooftop has those, the city corners will remember.

Willow whispers to bees, oak invites butterflies, ivy shelters hummingbirds, lotus draws nectar‑drunks, pine keeps ants on the scent. Pair them with wildflowers that laugh—clover, black‑eyed Susan, goldenrod, milkweed—so the city breathes sweet and sticky. Each petal is a breadcrumb on a dream path; the more it scatters, the easier the concrete forgets its hardness.

Picture a meandering ribbon, a dream’s breath through concrete, leading from one pocket to the next. Start with a willow arch at the entrance—water‑soft shade, a soft entry. From there, the path curls around an oak circle, roots visible like a map’s underbelly. The ivy climbs the walls, a climbing thread, guiding the trail to a lotus pond—centerpiece, stillness. Around the pond, a ring of pine needles offers scent, and the pollinator flowers sprout at the edge, like stars. The winding line itself becomes a map of symbols, inviting people to pause, taste each story, and leave the city’s grey behind.