If trees could talk, I don’t believe they would. The wisdom of hundreds of years tells them not to waste their breath.

They’ve seen our arguments, our wars, our unkept promises to one another and to ourselves. They felt our footsteps long before they could see us.

They stand there waiting,

watching,

hoping that their burn scars and hollow trunks will be a lesson. Yet the lessons only find dear ears.

Imagine the disappointment of the trees, as their leaves change, and their home changes, and yet the people stay the same.

I wouldn’t waste my breath either, if I was a tree.

Yet I must. I owe it to the forgiving whisper of the creek, to the birds who generously share their melodies, and the youthful flowers dancing in front of me.

I owe it to the tall pines, the ends of their branches so brilliantly reflecting the sunlight that the needles appear white against the pale blue sky.

The Sugar Pine, the White Fir, the Ponderosa, and the Jeffrey…

I owe it to the trees,

Who give me paper and a pencil and beg me to speak.