Trees are beautiful beings, living creatures. They carry a memory of the world and write down their years in their rings. They preserve their stories in countless scars on their trunks. Their branches scribble on the sky words only they can understand. Trees remember heavy rainfall, drought or fire. In their rings all the struggles and suffering, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the barren years and the lush years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured, the sunlight they basked in, the growing seasons of centuries.
They fill our landscapes with incredible beauty. We are lucky to experience their glory through the year. Their fragrant blooms in the spring, soothing greens in the summer, spectacular colours in the autumn, and quiet blankets of frost and snow in the winter.
Trees endure. They stand tall, holding on against all odds. Strong, proud and resilient. Their everlasting roots deeply etched in infinity. Their boughs reaching high for the skies sway and dance as the wind rustles and whispers through their leaves. It's one of the most beautiful and soothing sounds we can experience.
Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth about life and survival. They have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are. When trees whisper and sigh, listen to their thoughts, long-breathing and restful voices which say:
I am life. I was made from eternal life. I was made to form and reveal the eternal and unique life in each vein of my skin, in each smallest detail, in each slightest move of the leaves in my branches and the tiniest scar in my bark. I will show you how to survive. Look at me. Life is not easy. There are many storms to withstand, many obstacles to face. Be still. Stand tall. You are fearful and unhappy because you think that your path leads away from where you would like to be, from what you call home. But every step and every day lead you where you are meant to be. Home is not where you expect it to be. Home is within you. That is happiness.
Trees don't only give us the air that we breathe. They provide us with their wisdom and beauty. Our survival and well-being depend on them. Without them, like without love, our lives would not be as rich.
Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against the sky,
How beautiful it is?
All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness
There is a poem, there is a song.
Every leaf is gone and it is waiting for the spring.
When the spring comes, it again fills the tree with
The music of many leaves,
Which in due season fall and are blown away.
And this is the way of life.
Krishnamurti
"Listen to the trees talking in their sleep," she whispered, as he lifted her to the ground. "What nice dreams they must have!"
L.M. Montgomery
Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper,
That we may record our emptiness.
Kahlil Gibran
Silence stands between the trees, waiting for the wind's roar.
Marty Rubin
I’d like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches
Robert Frost
Why are there trees I never walk under but large and melodious thoughts descend upon me?
Walt Whitman
The tree has entered my hands,
The sap has ascended my arms,
The tree has grown in my breast –
Downward,
The branches grow out of me, like arms.
Tree you are,
Moss you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child – so high – you are,
And all this is folly to the world.
Ezra Pound
You know me, I think there ought to be a big old tree right there. And let's give him a friend. Everybody needs a friend.
Bob Ross
Everywhere I go,
your beauty spills
into my day.
The trees were
never this verdant.
The birdsong
never this sweet.
Kamand Kojouri
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
A. E. Housman
Poetry is seeing everything when there is only one thing. It is looking at a rose but seeing the stars, moons, seas, and trees. It is a truth beyond logic, an experience beyond thought. Poetry is the Earth pausing on its axis in order to manifest itself as a rose.
Kamand Kojouri
Soft sunlight
tall trees
woodsmoke impressions
summery cues
tossed on
this dainty patch
of my recluse.
Tara Estacaan
That long sigh again, above us. This time I saw it, moving through the branches. Like the trees were listening; like they would've been sad about us, sad for us, only they'd heard it all so many thousand times before.
Tana French
I belong with the trees,
the wind,
the earth beneath my feet.
I belong in the land of enchanting things.
But mostly,
I belong entwined in your kiss,
lost,
yet wild and free,
pure bliss,
like poetry.
Melody Lee
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 … Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass.
May Sarton
Leaf-ward we wander
Wind through these trees
Sunlight through breeze
bird songs around
we wander the leaves
Leland Lewis
In the wind that ruffles through the trees
I can find thoughts of you whispering to me
Richard L. Ratliff
Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind. Their leaves are telling secrets. Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks. And their roots give names to all things. Their language has been lost. But not the gestures.
Vera Nazarian
