Tag: tree

needles and cones

~ jennadawn ~ Leave a comment

The spruce tree
stands tall, stands proud
for all it has lived through.
Heat, cold, summers, winters many,
build and strengthen its trunk.

An ongoing cycle of renewal
adorns the grass and ground beneath.
Discarded needles and cones
cover the last remaining blades of grass.
The tree knows
how to let go of what no longer serves,
making space for new,
for the future,
letting go of the past.

I rake and collect the castaways.
I see no point in tallies or counts
for the total would near infinity.

I have needles and cones
to castaway too,
if only I could be as free
as the tree
in doing so.

blue jay

~ jennadawn ~ Leave a comment

The one second I chose
to glance out the window
was the same second
you chose to land on the branch.

I immediately wonder
what meaning you bring,
what hidden message you carry,
what I’m destined to interpret.

You make me think of him.

Maybe
it was only coincidence.
A magnificent coincidence.

see the forest too

~ jennadawn ~ Leave a comment

Stop where you are.
Look at the tree, the single tree
in front of you,
and the one beside.
But also, look beyond.
Look out, at the giant forest
standing tall in the background,
where some trees in the front
can be distinguished,
but the further you look
the more they all blur together.
A sea of greens and browns,
needles and leaves,
rocks and twigs
individual, but collective.

When you cannot see the forest for the trees,
you lose the collective.
Stop, step back,
appreciate the forest
and your tree within it.

Leaves remaining

~ jennadawn ~ Leave a comment

Leaves remaining from last year,
maybe longer,
collect and accumulate in a pile
littering the ground with browns and dull greys.
How many layers are there?
All I see are the new ones on top,
hiding the older ones underneath
likely in varying stages of decomposition.

There they lie.
Rustling ever so slightly in the breeze
are the light, new ones,
settling motionless, heavy with age and water
are the the old ones,
the foundation.

Up through the middle though
lives a tree
growing new bright and green leaves
and blossoms of dark fuschia and cotton white.
So odd it seems
how life can flourish from the base
of death, of decay,
but my eyes do not deceive me.

Perhaps, the leaves offer comfort.
Perhaps, the leaves provide warmth.
Perhaps, the leaves supply nourishment.
But perhaps, the leaves are a hindrance,
keeping the tree in the past,
preventing growth.

Despite the offered comfort,
go the leaves must.
I gathered mine,
will keep gathering as new ones fall,
growing through and beyond
the past.