Conversations with Trees

A nod to Havi and her love and conversations with trees. I know exactly what she means.

Dear Humans,

We are not your trees. We own our treeness. You do not own us. Do you not know we breathe your air before you do? We recycle it. Make it fresh and usable.

Do you not realize, we keep your ground secure and stable, snaking our roots through it, holding it all together for you?

Do you not understand we are homes to millions?

We try talking to you on the breeze and so few of you listen. We try singing you songs through the rustle of our limbs and leaves and needles.

Even though we know what is happening before you do – the very least you can do is to appreciate us – use us, if you must bring us down.

Allow us to become structures for your homes, coverings for their exteriors, timbers in your rooves, hardwoods supporting your feet. Mulch in your gardens and playgrounds.

We have shaded you from heat. And shielded you from rain. You used to allow our fallen comrades to warm your fingers and nose and cook your food.

Do not throw us away.

We do not mind being chipped, stripped, milled, lumbered, slatted, carved, molded, burned,  tumbled or dried when done with respect and honor.

But this blatant and unnecessary felling and discarding will leave you wanting.

One day you will no longer have grandfathers of our kind.

Until then, we still love you.

Dearest adoring trees,

While I can only speak for myself, my house quivers when you fall, my heart trembles and I feel your tears of frustration. Your fears of being cast off, left rotting because one of my people decided it was time for you to go, long before your prime, solely because you stand in the way of progress.

I will always remember your warm embraces and the solace you brought to me in the heat of the day. I will fondly recall dancing for joy during your wild and gleefully rousing wind symphonies. How I woefully moaned with you and worried for you during the storms.

I still feel and adore the soft showers as you sigh your sweet dew drops on me just after dawn.

I love your smells and appreciate the fact that you support my feet both inside this home and under it.

If I controlled the world my only desire would be to help you when you are old and hollowed out, when you are diseased and broken. To swathe your roots in rich deep loam when you are young and to watch you grow – towering above me.

To listen to your stories and share them. To stand beneath your glory and appreciate all you do for me, for us.

And I will where and when it is in my power.

I adore you. I thank you for holding me.