THE MAN WHO KNEW TREES

The man who knew trees.

 

He moved like a man who knew trees -

not as objects, or even equals -

but, certain in his mind

that here were the greatest of all living creatures,

he stepped comfortably and quietly through the wood

and, without presumption or design,

acknowledged every one as if it were a friend.

 

               “Trees,”

he said, speaking as a believer would when entering a church,

“are the oldest living beings on the earth,

and make our span seem like a second’s passing.

If, out of necessity, we have to cut one down,

we should first beg its forgiveness,

as do hunters, living off the land,

when they must kill an animal for food,

out of respect

because they know the prey control the hunt;

or like a reluctant executioner

whose duty is to make a martyr of a saint.

For whenever an old tree dies or is destroyed,

we lose a library

where birds and animals have always come

to gain the knowledge of all of nature’s ways

and even we can, if we have a mind,

study how the world is made.”