Trees, Leaves, and Other Things
The imperceptible teachings of trees and how they remind me to look up.
Hey all! It has been a long while since my last post. But alas! Here is one.
Small update, Big news: I have been in training in my local Police Academy! I recently graduated and I started field training last week. Major life changes here. Looking forward to how things will be different in this coming season. Also, I will be striving to post more on here. Missed reading all the good content. Enjoy!
A tree in a wood, a forest,
in a land long ago.
Sheltering children, or hobbits,
small, fanciful, fantastical,
full of joy and wonder,
grateful for their home,
growing, lumbering tree.
Whose branches spread,
like the years,
upward and outward reaching
towards those heavens.
The heavens that look down upon
the leaves and trees,
and the roots of these,
and the small heads of the smallest of children, or hobbits?
The trees they speak a language of another tongue.
Unknown by most but felt by all.
Wind, and rustling and leaves and branches.
Brushing and hushing, whisper dreams.
Words of wisdom and softest of sentences
to those who dwell within its reaches.
A child, a hobbit? Looking upward on their back.
Upward up the long straightness of an Oak.
Counting leaves who dance in the wind, and
watches the branches as they orchestrate the wind.
Wonder of wonders this little one thinks.
That a tree would grow towards the sky?
And one day decide to stop reaching altogether?
Why trees at all? Why knots and burls?
So many questions for these slumbering giants.
And yet here they remain, long before and long after.
Majestic, magic, slow and slumbering, oaken and ashen,
Be-decked with bark like armor or a habit.
Soldiers or Saints?
Do they stand guard over this woodland or
like some monastic order devoutly praying for their charges.
Do they fast or feast? Are they victorious or vanquished?
Nobles standing tall over their subjects,
or subjected to a curse never to leave their places?
Trees, homes, shelter to me.
No matter the issue, magical all the same.
Teachers these wooden sky reachers.
Branching fingers teaching me to yearn for the heavens
no matter how tall or small.