The Tree of Life holds broad meanings but universally symbolizes the unity of life regardless of creed, nation, or species. Life grows, entangling all living things, even outside, perhaps moreso, the faithless. Your unique singular moment of life in time's expanse signifies but a single bough that blooms grows and withers in the endless growth of the great tree.
I am a forgotten tree in humanity's garden
Shading all those who believe, toiling in the Son's burden
My fruit nourishes and heals those starving and dying
Timber builds mansions with seals for those of faith not lying
I shield from adversity, even those who cannot see
No winds or storm can break me, you seek shelter beneath me
Standing for the rich and poor, no person shall be ignored
Forgiveness in peace and war, faith alone is your reward
My boughs are for whites and blacks my love is always equal
Roots deep, no religion lacks, while seemingly unequal
I stand for you till the last as you trust with faith of stone
But long, long before you pass, be sure you're not alone.
Look...that’s all we got and all we need
Beauty is hard to find, at times amidst the anger/hurt/pain of life.
Beauty is out there (and in here), but sometimes you have to fight for it.
Thank goodness, because otherwise how will you ever learn how costly and priceless beauty can be and, in truth, usually is?
However, the leaves of this year’s autumn are spectacular.
Looking at them it seems impossible that somebody didn’t set them up exactly as they are so that if they could speak they’d quote Jackson Pollock, “I am nature.”
And no one would be inclined to argue.
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.
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.
Trees We’ve Always Known and Never Known
Trees or Clouds?
Not “versus” of course because both have earned and won their rights to be considered sacred.
The difference is that the clouds and the skies are always watching, even looking down onto the trees and the clouds are always just hanging around in Western Oregon.
Oak trees hide in soft green patches of tired old men creaking when they stretch. A broken cattail, twirling, bends in silence as we pass.
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.
Copyright Vincent Triola & Terry Trueman