When the Trees Talk to Me

Rooted there. Full with thoughts, crowded by ideas that change with the seasons,

change with the weather. How is it, to be constantly exposed to the outside world

that will inevitably change you, never fails to? Even if little twigs are cut off

occasionally, is it a bad life, is it a dull existence? One condemned to sit, to wait, to

watch? Simply collect ideas and decorate your character with them, hold them

around yourself like you are cold and your thoughts will keep you warm?

No, it is not. Every passerby leaves a token of their stay, perhaps carves their initials

where the bark has worn away. You don’t need to move around the world if the world

is moving around you. It is impossible to be lonely when inside of you lies the home

of a wayward squirrel who refuses to arrive when you call, but always returns in the

end. And gnarled, familiar fingers grasp you by the shoulder and speak to you for a

time that has no defined end, but stretches on and on until it slowly fades away. Like

all things, though, it will come again if you only ask it to.

Talk to me, tree. You are young. How can you tell me such things?

Alas, you cannot, ever, give a perfect answer, but only keep collecting.
Posted on March 4th, 2008 at 09:55pm

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