Trees are the kindest things I know,
They do no harm,
they simply grow
And spread a shade
for sleepy cows,
And gather birds among their boughs.
They give us fruit in leaves above,
And wood to make our houses of,
And leaves to burn on Hallowe’en,
And in the Spring
new buds of green.
They are the first when day’s begun
To touch the beams of morning sun.
They are the last to hold the light
When evening changes
And when a moon floats on the sky
They hum a drowsy lullaby
Of sleepy children
long ago . . .
Trees are the kindest things I know.
who guards the woods?
who guards the woods?
to see other guardians, go to my portfolio guardian of the trees or my posts guardian in the trees & guardian in the branches.
what would it be like to live in the texture of the trees? to jump through the lower branches, to move in & out from the thick around the trunk, then to the outer edges, all the way up to into the sky. the birds experience this everyday.
I am not bound for any public place, but for ground of my own where I have planted vines and orchard trees, and in the heat of the day climbed up into the healing shadow of the woods.
for more about birds see bird talk.
for more about the trees & those who guard them see guardian of the trees or click my catagory twigs&blossoms.
on the distant cliff of a table.
Up close, it draws you in,
cuts everything down to size.
Look at it from the doorway,
& the world dilates & bloats.
The button lying next to it
is now a pearl wheel,
the book of matches is a raft,
& the coffee cup a cistern
to catch the same rain
that moistens its small plot of dark, mossy earth.
For it even carries its own weather,
leaning away from a fierce wind
that somehow blows
through the calm tropics of this room.
The way it bends inland at the elbow
makes me want to inch my way
to the very top of its spiky greenery,
hold on for dear life
& watch the sea storm rage,
hoping for a tiny whale to appear.
I want to see her plunging forward
through the troughs,
tunneling under the foam & spindrift
on her annual, thousand mile journey.
in honor of mother’s day & the precious woman who i watched grow & who watched over me as i grew, here is a bouquet of flowers for the trees. two things dear to her heart.
from some of our walks together, here are some flowers & trees that we shared.
I never saw a discontented tree. They grip the ground as though they liked it, & though fast rooted they travel about as far as we do. They go wandering forth in all directions with every wind, going & coming like ourselves, traveling with us around the sun two million miles a day, & through space, heaven knows how fast & far.
The tree is more than first a seed, then a stem, then a living trunk, & then dead timber. The tree is a slow, enduring force straining to win the sky.
—Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Wisdom of the Sands
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing the celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Look: the trees exist; the houses we dwell in stand there stalwartly. Only we pass by it all, like a rush of air. And everything conspires to keep quiet about us, half out of shame perhaps, half out of some secret hope. ―Rainer Maria Rilke
so who guards the trees?
trees rise up into the sky. they stay strong through turbulent wind & rain, through extreme heat & cold. they provide oxygen & shade, absorb pollutants from the soil, muffle urban noise, & absorb carbon dioxide.
but who guards the trees?