Of Particular Trees

When walking in autumn woods

alone or dog-leashed on a sunny day,

the unification of the forest yields to individual members,

trunks picked out from the gold or brown carpet of half-fallen leaves,

their collection of greys and browns, smooth or textured, telling family stories.

*

Sometimes, I will spot a stalwart sentinel trunk,

spreading out huge to the sky among the lesser vertical ones

which hold their branches tucked in

like a woman clutching her purse in a crowded subway.

I’ll know by the way it stands and think toward it,

uh-hunh, yes, you were here when this place was a field.

*

And I’ll want it to tell me its stories

about the time when the snow was so deep it was buried up to its lowest branch,

or the couple that had their first kiss under its canopy and maybe more,

the birds and animals that take shelter,

the wind that sings its lullaby,

how the view has changed, and the slant of the sun,

where the stars have gone, and the most beautiful moon in its memory,

branches lost in a storm,

how deep its roots have gone,

rotations of the Earth passing,

the nuances noticed and written down in growth rings,

the feeling that everything is revolving around you,

spinning as you stand in space,

alone in a crowd of trees.

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Of Particular Trees was originally published on Medium in Scribe on November 8, 2024