Some may notice that I like trees.
Trees that are spaced along streets,
shading family homes or apartment
buildings. Trees that are lined and old,
that show what solid means. They’ve
given up wondering what will happen
tomorrow and tomorrow. Apparently
trees are sentient and know what goes on. They just keep quiet about it.
Do they talk to the young saplings in the
parks or yards about the neighbourhood,
the children that tug their branches as if
they were pigtails. The vehicles that will
pass and spew fumes into the air that they
clean The dogs and cats that use them in
quite an unsanitary manner, grateful for
the rain that washes them clean. Do they
warn them about taking on a prairie wind
but know that, in their youth, they will
anyway. And lose their leaves in the gamble.
Are the trees full of beautiful coloured flowers
in spring of another class, only deigning to grow
on a plain city avenue, because they were planted
there, or do they have a modicum of humility when
their flowers fade and fall to be coloured snow on
the grass. I would ask them all these questions but
their answers would be silent as their summer shade.
“Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them,
whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth.”
~ Hermann Hesse, German-Swiss novelist and poet
1877 - 1962
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