Oh Tree

The bird’s enchanting melody lifted high in the midmorning breeze and echoed above him waking the world he sat in envy of. His brush would never capture the feeling of this moment, he thought, heartbroken. How could he immortalize what lived in his heart? Was the sparrow mocking him? Or was he cheering him on? He sighed and dipped his brush in the carefully selected mixture of acrylics. The copper tones should have been perfect. He closed his eyes and saw her. Maybe a touch more purple would make it right. He opened them again and gazed at the tree before him. 

Fierce in its strength; the tree stood proud, emanating a sense of purpose. Here she thrived, offering her beauty to the world, her shade to all that sat beneath her, and her wisdom to each weary traveler that happened upon her. Her branches were long and stoic; a home to the twittering birds and joyful squirrels. 

He sat back and reflected upon his masterpiece. The still, blue pond sat, accurately composed. The soft illumination of the sun reflected in effectively-placed highlights. The greens, yellows, browns, and whites merged to reflect the field he sat in. But, the tree; nature’s closest comparison to the thing he most desired. The golden etching along the trunk wasn’t quite right. The cosmetic combination of reds and browns could not quite compare to the copper, beech tree of God’s creation that stood before him. Maybe she wouldn’t notice. Maybe his affection would distract from the effervescent qualities he had tried but failed to emulate.

 His work sat lackluster in front of him as he felt the small, rounded box in his pocket. Tracing along the edges with his finger, he bent his head back, lifting his eyes to the heavens. As he took in a deep breath and began a silent prayer, he was interrupted by her voice calling out his name. He turned away from the scene and saw the soft, wavy lines of her copper tresses flowing in the breeze. She was joyfully skipping towards him. He grasped the box in his pocket, clinging on as his heart pounded. He looked back one more time at his offering. It was dry. He was ready.

~~

The echo of her girlish giggles peaked and fell with their movement as they skipped in unison towards her favourite part of the grounds. She felt those tiny fingers clasped in her hand and vowed to never let go. As they reached her spot, they fell to the ground and sat with their backs pressed against the firm, solid trunk. She looked down beside her to the pure, blonde strands of hair waving in the wind with wild abandon. Oh to be young and free, careless and innocent, sweet and perfect as she was. 

“Mommy, what’s that?” she asked gleefully, pointing to a small speck of blue in the grass only a few feet ahead of them. 

“I’m not sure, darling,” she replied, honestly. She stood up and inspected further, noticing the round shape and speckled exterior. “Oh, it appears to be a bird’s egg.”

“Oh wow. It’s so pretty! Can I have it, mommy? Please?” she implored, her big, blue eyes questioned, brimming with hope. 

“Oh no, my dear. We must leave the egg as is.” She looked up at the bounty of branches reaching out above them; each one carrying a flock of rusted, red leaves. She peered closely trying to eye the whereabouts of a home. “Inside this tiny blue shell, there is a little baby growing,” she instructed, sincerely. “And somewhere up in your favourite tree lies a perfect, cozy nest the baby’s mother made to keep it safe. Somehow this innocent, little egg has gotten lost and left its home, but its mommy must be desperately searching and trying to get her baby back home. One day, when the baby bird hatches and leaves its egg, we want it to be very close to its home so it can be reunited with its mother and they will live happily ever after.”

The little girl listened attentively, so enthralled she was in the story, “Oh, I sure do hope it finds its mommy again!” the little girl cried.

“I do too!” the mother agreed. Then, she reached up high and plucked a single, waxy, reddish-brown leaf. “This you can have, my little one,” she said as she handed over the simple offering. We must take care of our beautiful tree but I believe she would like you to have this little gift; a token of her love. 

“Ah, I love it!” the girl grasped the leaf gently and gracefully ran her hand along the ridges. The mother swept her gaze from the girl, to the tiny robin’s egg, and then back up to the tree. Her eyes traveled through the deep cover of foliage as she searched for the tiny one’s home once more. 

~~

Solitary it sat.

History; its story.

Circling, concentric

Lines.

Ruins.

A life taken,

But not erased.

A story told,

But not forgotten.

Tell me thy tales, 

Teach me.

Oh tree.

The words on the page formed, took shape; his pen flowed, allowing the moment of divine intervention. He pondered what the tree had seen on these lands for centuries before him while a single blackbird landed about a foot away. It sat and pecked at the ground before it, lifting its tiny head in intervals of curiosity.

 He looked down once more at his inspiration and wondered what stories had been told, what lives had intersected, what purpose God had for this beacon of life before it had been taken away. All that remained was the stump, a foot tall, and the rings which told of so many years of life before man’s destructive nature took it away. Why did man ravage what God had given them, time and time again? Why must nature struggle to grow alongside man’s world of death and destruction? 

He closed his writing journal and sat beside his new friend. He ran his fingers along the lines within the stump, trying but failing to count the rings that determine its age. Below him, he knew that deep, strong roots reached for miles, securing the foundation of the brutally altered stump. He reflected on the promise of new life. Would the tree grow again, fearsome and strong enough to offer shade to a whole new generation? He hoped so.