The baby tree,
thin and supple,
bark as smooth as polished marble,
is a blank slate,
waiting for life experiences
to etch its memoir in the bark.
Bark patterns unique as fingerprints,
ever evolving and adapting as the tree adds growth rings,
expanding and cracking
leaving behind stretch marks.
Each tree is its own artist
telling its own story
in its own idiosyncratic way.
Tree Braille,
as provocative as the wrinkles on an elders’ face,
the grooves and bumps and crevices
reveal the stories of
the time when the lightening storm struck,
the time when the the ice storm made the electricity go out,
the time when the children were young and climbed to their favorite branch each day,
the time when the rabbits found nourishment in its bark,
the time when the owls came to nest.
My fingers run gently across the bark,
the ridge traveling this way and that,
wider here and narrower there,
first shallow and then deep
the possibilities endless below my fingertips.
The oak, the maple, the birch, the pine,
each has its own tradition for
growing bark in its own way,
like different tribes making their own style of baskets.
Hand on the bark
I’m so close to the lifeblood,
the xylem and phloem flowing just under the bark,
to nourish both the roots and the leaves.
With intent focus, I imagine it pulse,
the tree’s heartbeat revealing its health
and adding to its story.
Next time I am looking for a good book to read
I think I will read a tree.
