Forget the charms of lovely Venus; I think trees grace the landscapes and skies. They are a exhilarating treasure for me.
The trees dress in the demure creams and browns, greens—they have wrinkles, crevices, holes. I have found some trees like grandma’s apron… always welcoming; beckoning, warm, safe—the apron that wipes away any trouble. The trees are joyous—and easy to celebrate under their shade.
I love trees most of all because they are like steady Eddies, enclosing explosive subtleties and secrets behind some of our spectacular history.
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They have a mysterious quality, a strong yet delicate force. I struggle to capture the tree’s secrets.
In our part of the world, some will not stand for long, through cold winters; the species are a riot of wild colors and host wilder creatures. They are almost constantly warm and wet so that they can flower and fruit at pretty much any time.
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Every autumn as the weather cools up North, the broad-leaf trees perform a magnificent change of color before they drop their leaves in a grandiose display… then, they are left naked! We often scoff at those that believe in the afterlife.
A fool’s dream. But, if we were sentient trees, would we not witness the autumn and say, “Certainly this is the end?” For how can it be plausible, by tree logic alone, that a Dogwood twig, no more than 2mm in diameter, can bud again after -40*?
But all of these trees are wearing a mysterious giant quilted jacket with many upper vest pockets… full of secrets.
They know us. They know the wild cat bumpkins who made moonshine for hundreds of years, the hot heads, the scoundrels, the delicate souls that cozied up. They’ve seen, “Hup-two-three-four; pick it up two three four” as the 9 year old parade-grand sergeant major whipped his men into shape.
They have provided gracious ambiance; including romantic settings, stellar views amd hiding places for rodential gangsters. Taken a bullet for some, tree-houses for the generations.
Some trees are quiet and more reserved in temperament, providing a solid base for future growth; while some are dramatic and openly enthusiastic. With time, patience, understanding, growth, death, sorry, grief, endurance… the history, the legacy and deep understanding of trees takes over.
If only I could discover the secrets and ways to stand tall and graceful as they do. Swaying in the wind without fear—trusting in my roots. But this is a skeptical generation; forever worried about toppling.
I don’t spend nearly enough time laying down and watching the Spruce sway against the back drop of a Minnesota sky or smelling the Juniper’s rich berry.