Trees are not our friends, and we are not theirs either...it’s not always all about us, except when it is.
I took all the pretty pics of trees for this piece, but I still am cautious around them — can you blame me?
Wind and Trees and Us
As we grow old (and older)
the wind still whispers or howls
through nights and trees
and lowland prairies.
It is indifferent to our eloquence or sloth,
awkwardness or ambition,
capacity for innuendo and self-delusion,
or stunning genius on display.
The wind,
in fact whether winter gale or summer breeze,
is sublime and perfectly attuned
in its indifference to us.
It neither ignores nor acknowledges us
as it moves over and around and through
stones and puddles
and earth and great oceans
and our frail irrelevance.
In the sight of the wind,
we are no greater or lesser than trees
and this is where the problems begin.
Because the trees
know differently.
The trees know they are
better than we frail humans.
Foggy day from our kitchen window
A Foggy Day
The best thing about our house is the view,
a wide, long vista to the east/southeast
where often the sunrises are to die for.
But not today:
This morning the fog
with a slight scent of fall smoke
obscures everything
except for what one can remember
looking out the windows.
Everything
except for the trees
and seeing nothing beyond them
but the light white/grey fog,
kind of depressing and kind of perfect.
Because, because, because:
I guess because I’m still here to see it.
And the trees are still here,
ignoring me.
Riverside State Park in Winter
A Lot of Tree Talk
Many poets and great thinkers
and others have written elegant elegies to trees,
sung praise and love songs
and been touched and touched back.
Yet the trees don’t seem to pay
any more attention
than bright stones or still water,
unless a breeze rises and kisses all.
Isn’t this the very essence of unrequited love?
I think so and by the way,
the trees NEVER return my calls.
Riverside State Park in Winter (2)
