The Naming of Trees

Nov 17 2018

He knew the names of trees.

All of them, with authority.

Striding through the shade

of the softly rustling canopy

he spoke with great affection,

as if dropping in on old friends

who were thick-skinned

and taciturn

and in no rush.

Good listeners,

who were content to remain

where life had taken them.

While to me, tagging along

all I could see were generic trees,

groaning in the wind

towering over us.

The conceit of naming,

as if they serve at our pleasure

and we could truly know them.

Our neat taxonomies,

reassuring us

with the illusion of order.

Because there are no names

in the language of trees,

broadcast in pheromones

through freshly charged air,

and whispered through the web of roots

that signal, touch, and share.

Hiding in plain sight,

as deep beneath the soil

as weathered trunks reach up.

If knowledge is power

then ignorance is bliss,

strolling here

among these gentle giants

as they ponderously sway in the wind.

In the earthiness, the scent

the cool green wetness

of this old growth copse,

where I know nothing

and feel uncommonly humbled.

Our busy lives, flickering past

while they quietly stand.

Trees

who speak in alien tongues,

but welcome loud strangers

indulge our brash presumption.

And in their steady measured way,

breathing in as I breathe out

sharing every breath.