Tell me again of brown poetry, of the majesty of weathered boughs and well anchored roots. Tell me again of their punk barnets, crowning the land at merest hint of heat. Tell me again because without the trees I am the lost and unfound.
The tree, an earth-heaven highway of browns, had not once been seen to grow since she were a wind-born seed. Yet daily, she became a giant stretching upward with wide protective boughs.
Into the jocund day the tree stands as cheerleader to each passing spirit.
The tree in the ever-hug of the atmosphere, crows the hillock and flourishes both wand and foliage.
Tree bark is the brown fingerprint of my soul, for as I touch it I feel a divine connection spark.
The tree leans into the sunny rays as if they were lovers in eternal trance.
Though black heavens and sun-lit days, the tree is sentry to landscape, the stoic guardian of so many souls.
The tree is the grand poem of the living world, a beauty that encourages the spirit to dance though words, to make our odes to it's branches that spread heaven-bound. And in the strong light of the new day it creates a kiss for the senses in those moving leaves, the thousand green hues and the soft whispering in the wind.
There in the centre of a million grassy wands stands a tree, her bark so patterned as if carved by her own rain-born flash rivers. She stretches up, as if so proud to stand there under the sun in any weather. How I wish she could see her own beauty, her green bounty and earthy browns, yet perhaps I should wish for her peace and the wisdom to simply be what I am.
I imagine each dancing leaf as one from a favourite book, each one with a story of nature, with its own lyrics of the wind and memories of the birds. Each one is art, a bold green with infinite nuance for the eye who dwells in awe and love. This tree, this mighty feat of nature, has taken so many years to grow, all of those tiny moments morphing imperceptibly into the present. Yet that's the thing about growth, it is only when we compare with a sense of the months and years past that we see such amazing changes.
In this light that paints my skin so warmly, the trees are dancing ladies, each in dresses more fabulous than any designer can craft. They move, choreographed by the wind, in perfect time with one another. They are the life and soul of this early summer morning, and I wonder how many hues of green my eyes are witnessing. As they stretch upwards and outwards toward the light, drinking in rays as pure as the rain, I stretch my arms up too, fingers spread toward the sun and slowly begin to dance.
Though the path is dark, cast into shadow by the tall mossy pines on either side, the sun must be brilliant beyond it. Every tree glows brightly virescent just at the edges of the trunks, a biological halo of sorts that brings a soothing happiness I've been missing these past few days.
The tree lifted his branches to the sky as if his very presence was enough to beat back the darkness and command the daylight to fall on his papery leaves. His bark shone like the right kind of gold, the sort that inspires the mind to heady heights of imagination, opening doors to fantastical kingdoms. It was no wonder that the tree is where Charlotte went when her soul needed to recharge, when all the money in the world felt cold but the touch of the trunk and strong branches felt like a hug from the heavens above.