. . . to a Tree


“The time has come for us to move on

Let us nest that time in the

Bottom of the tree

To grow with each new branch

Letting our leaves bud with

Each new spring

The nest is our home, the branches

Our foundation

It is the universal home of God

For I am set in the ways of the tree

I am bound for eternity.”

There’s something about trees. My discovery started at 15 when I wrote this poem and I realized I had a place in this world. Now I refer to the nature of trees as a metaphor for living, a guiding symbol for finding home and the beginning for my story. “The trees are deep-rooted, tender leaves seemingly suspended in stillness but knowingly growing and maturing,” I wrote in my journal.

My tree attraction wasn’t for just any tree. It was a particular birch tree I had grown to know in my early years – developing a kinship with its youth – planted on the same plot as I. Its delicate arms played in uncomplicated innocence, inviting me to circle around it. The poet Robert Frost wrote, “Birches” where, “I like to think some boy’s been swinging them . . . And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed, So low for long, they never right themselves: You may see their trunks arching in the woods, Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground, Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair . . . James Roy Blair even wrote a book titled, “The Birch Trees” where he prefaced, “ I’ll always remember the birches for as long as I live. It’s the silver bark of the birch, the lenticels, and the height they grow to whilst remaining slim . . . but they always remind me of home.”

My tree had a purpose back then. Both followed me throughout my story.

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