I look out my
window and see you standing there, bending to the wind, Great Wise Trees . . . enduring all, protecting all. They tell me, at my birth, my mother laid me
in a cradle made of wood. You gave your life for me.
I learned to
crawl on wooden floors, my tiny hands and knees frolicking on your body. I grew to sit on a chair and eat from a
table, both made of wood. My fingers
touched the grooves in your flesh and from early on, I wanted you near me, comforting
and connecting me to earth. At that
table I ate berries and fruit that grew on your branches. I ate pancakes too, and poured your golden
maple sap . . . learning that you could feed me too. You
gave your life for me.
I went to school
and there you were . . . all over . . . everywhere. The floors, the walls, and desk I sat at . .
. the words I learned to read were printed on the thinnest slivers of your
flesh, papers written on with wooden pencils. All the words we humans
think in our minds are written on your flesh . . . Dear Trees, you must know
our every thought by now.
When winter
comes and days are cold and dark, we burn you to warm our bodies and our food
and you become an offering. Your smoke
fills the air and rises to the heavens, calling out to the Great Spirit who
created us both. You give your life for me.
I live inside your walls. You are my shelter from the storms you bear
and must
endure; my shelter from the sun and its
scorching rays. Your leaves of green
refresh
my heart in spring and cool my brow in
summer and your brilliance thrills my soul in
autumn.
Now it is winter and your branches are
barren.. Even the birds, who call you
their
home, abandon you for lower bushes and
warmer winds. You stand stark and bare
and I can see now where you’ve been
broken, your limbs that have fallen, and your
bark that is torn. Some of you, Great Trees, have fallen; some
have given your lives
and been chopped down to make once again,
some comfort for me and my kind.
You give your
life for me and I learn from all your changes and forms and seasons . .
.
about my own life and my own seasons and
how that calls for sacrifice too.
Man crossed the waters and the oceans in
your body . . . boats and ships and oars.
We
have come to know our brothers on the
other side because of you. You gave your
life for us.I
wonder as I look at your branches touching one another in the woods behind my
home, do you feel each other, sending messages, vibrations, stories of
the birds you love and the wind that tests you?
Do you talk about me and my children?
Have you seen the suffering of man and breathed it into your immense
compassion, so much so that you agree
to die for us, even to the point of being buried in the ground with us,
cradling us, wrapping us in your arms when our days are over? You are the cradle at our birth and the
cradle in our death. And you and I will
decompose together in the womb of Mother Earth only to be born again in other
forms, in other times, in other lives . . .
Joanne
Cucinello
