A TREE

 

"How can I do what you say," asked the child, "and still be me?" "Look at me," said the tree. "I bend in the wind, droop in the rain. Yet I always remain myself, a tree." "Look at me," said the man. "I can't change." "Look at me," said the tree. "I change every season from green to brown to green again, from bud to flower to fallen leaf. Yet I always remain myself, a tree." "I can't love anymore," said the woman. "With my love, I have given away all that I am." "Look at me," said the tree. "There are robins in my branches, owls in my trunk, moss and ladybugs living on my bark. They may take what I have, but not what I am." Whether we know it or not, we are like the tree. Only our pride hangs on to a false sense of self, wanting to keep everything, refusing to follow advice or orders. What we do doesn't matter; how we do it is what counts.>





I think of the trees and how simply they let go, let fall the riches of a season, how without grief (it seems) they can let go and go deep into their roots for renewal and sleep.



I think that I shall never see
a poem as lovely as a tree.



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