The Wisdom of Trees
a free verse poem

I stand in awe of the wisdom of trees. Strong, silent, clinging to the earth in symbiotic hug, not much unlike the amniotic lifeline that brought us here. A skirt of oak-crackle piles, wind-stirred so, rustles the song of winter coming, abscission that came with the cold. I’ll not shed joy here like skin, peeled back and sloughed away. I’ll wrap in leaves, tall like trees.
The canopy shifts and sunlight pierces soil, — filtered, soft; uplifter of moss, diviner of acorn and birther of oak after oak, to carry the story to the skies when the last of these wise giants die, cyclic, eternal; nothing here is lost. Nothing is ever really lost, merely moved from our sight or unpeeled from our arms, a painful abscission until we release. The breeze through a swirl of leaves, agrees.
I’m told they speak, these trees. Nutrients riding a mycorrhizal network; the subways of soil. The white pine, still a juvenile thing, reaching; I pray she will have deep roots. Her middle is browned, needles burned, remnants of summer drought. Her trunk makes small sways as if finding her way to the sky is filled with obstacles, indecision. The squirrels wait for her girth.
Radial limbs like wheels mark her undeniably a white. Thankful, as I am not partial to Loblolly, and we are too far from the sea for the graceful fingers of the Long Leafs. But, a pine, no less in a small oak-domain, reaching all the same, as out of place as I, shoes between my feet and the soil, miles and miles between myself and sky.


Promoting your writing:
Christina Ward 🎄 2019






