All this year I have walked under trees; oak and ash and willow, sycamore, chestnut and lime. I’ve watched them slowly clothe themselves in greenery and then turn russet and gold before losing their leaves again and revealing the delicate tracery of twigs and branches silhouetted against winter sunsets. There have been mornings when they have been shrouded in mist, and afternoons when the sun has filtered through the canopy and splashed the trunks with dappled shadows. I can trace the passing of the seasons in a calendar of trees.
There have been times when walking beneath them has been a kind of salvation, when standing under their spreading branches and doing nothing more than just being there, and being aware of it, has restored my soul.
Among The Trees
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
This post is my response to the Daily Post challenge for multi-media storytelling. It’s been fun!