A Poem as Lovely as a Tree

At first glance, the topic for today's blog post may not seem as interesting as the two previous posts. After all, trees can't raid your garden or steal your birdseed. And assuming you're not a kid or teen, you probably haven't even attempted climbing a tree or hanging out in a treehouse anytime recently. (I'm included in that particular boat since I have never had any skill when it comes to climbing trees.) Even so, trees seem to have captured the artist's interest since time immemorial. From Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" (the poem from which this post takes its title) to the Biblical parable about faith the size of a mustard seed that can grow into a beautiful tree, it is clear that trees have been a staple of literature for an incredibly long time.

In today's era, trees are known to be precious for more than their visceral appeal. Trees act as natural smokestack scrubbers, cleaning the air around them by absorbing carbon dioxide and releasing fresh oxygen in trade. In the United States, there are very few old growth forests (forests which have been around since before the colonial era) that remain (a notable exception is the Redwood Forest in California). In South America, the Amazon Rainforest, the largest rainforest on earth, has already had 20% of its trees cut down, and continues to be destroyed at the rate of 22,000 square miles per year. Given that 20 percent of the world's oxygen is produced by the Amazon, it seems like it might be well worth protecting.

Of course, the visceral appeal of trees shouldn't be discounted either. I've had few happier afternoons than ones spent sitting against the trunk of a tree in late spring or early summer, reading a book, writing a story, or even just watching the world around me for a little while. One of my favorite trees to sit by, a maple tree I called "Old Creaky," actually fell down a few years ago after a rough storm. Old Creaky wasn't really that old compared to some of the other trees in my family's yard, but after it was struck by lightning and split down the center of its trunk sometime before we moved into the house, it slowly started to lose its structural integrity. On the bright side, though, that crack down the middle caused it to creak quietly whenever the wind blew by. On a mildly breezy day, sitting under Old Creaky felt almost like trying to eavesdrop on a distant conversation, one where you could hear the voices but couldn't quite make out any of the words. I'd lean against its trunk, straining my ears to catch all the tiny groans and creaks, and wishing (as silly as it may sound) that I could speak the tree's language and know what it was trying to say.

I've never loved a specific tree as much as I loved Old Creaky, but I've always loved trees in general. They seem like nature's best-dressed citizens in some ways, from the way they sprout into greenery (and sometimes flowers) in the spring, and then trade the green for beautiful shades of yellow, orange, and red in the autumn. Even in the winter, at their most bare, they are beautiful when adorned with frost, snow, or a thin sheen of ice. In the end, I suppose I can only agree with Kilmer to express my awe for and appreciation of trees: "Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree."

This week's challenge is to try and listen to a tree for awhile. If you'd rather stay inside, that's fine (the weather outside around where I live has certainly been unfit for both men and beasts recently); just find a tree near a window and listen to the branches bump into the glass. Who knows? You, too, might just find yourself straining to understand a conversation that you know you can hear, but just can't quite make out the words.

P.S.: I apologize for my tardiness on this post. I completely forgot about it on Friday (oops), and by the time I remembered "Oh duh, I have a blog," I was already swung back into the business of the week and didn't have a spare moment to sit down and get writing. Starting this Friday, we should be back on a regular weekly posting schedule.