Everyday, the leaves fall more and the branches become a little barer.
I hear the birdsong still, dancing upon the silent bough.
A tree is like a human soul, yet there is perfection there.
Their roots take only what is necessary from the earth. The leaves absorb the whole spectrum of colours from the sun.
With it they make food.
Embracing the toxins of the atmosphere around them, transforming them in to pure air exhaled.
They make an abundant home for all creatures.
Birds, foxes, owls, rabbits...
Even we find shelter beneath their generous canopy in the midst of the storm, whose arms reach only toward heaven as the rain spills.
They provide wood for all needs, from fire to furnishings.
They warm, sustain and provide shelter.
Year upon year the leaves begin to fall.
And with them, the soil is replenished once more. From beauty, to ashes. From death to life.
Bees gather from their blossom in the springtime.
And the memory still lingers faintly upon the air like pollen.
Even now as they become, brittle, stark and naked as deadwood upon the flame of Autumn.
Hands reach quietly, obscurely, embracing the taut, white canvas of the sky.
Immovable, except for the breeze. And they don't resist it's swell.
Something, invisible, eternal, sacred.
Like church spires along the horizon.
They stand in praise of Him who made them.
Photocredit: starbeard
