I know two trees that are woven together,
fiber by fiber, root by root,
braided together after countless days,
and moments, and centuries,
holding onto each other,
their branches shimmering together in every wind.
Their canopies are a tapestry,
their roots indistinguishable from one another,
like a basket holding the world in,
tucked into clay soil and spiderweb,
and when one of them dies,
its leaves turning to rust, its roots softening,
the other tree will die too.
But for now they are here,
still here,
sharing light,
and soil,
and standing with blankets of ivy at their feet,
their branches clinging to each other,
their faces turned high to the sun,
cedar and hemlock,
two trees,
two completely different species,
that have learned to become one.
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I’m the author of four environmental and science fiction novels: Call of the Sun Child, Listen, The Seas of Distant Stars, and Blue Mar.
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