We always discover something interesting when we walk around the neighborhood. I picked one of these up a few days ago. I’m not very knowledgable about naming plants–certainly I don’t know what tyoe of tree this is from. But what I liked most is that this looks like a rose that will never wilt. And it made me smile.
This tree struck me with its strange appearance. Is it dead, but just still standing? Or is there anything still living?
Am I simply thinking too much?
I wish this tree was more vibrant.
Today’s roses, still wearing last night’s dew. November 19, 2020.
The wind is howling outside, You can hear the treetops respond,the window creak and if you look the world is in motion, swaying Humanity and our days change But nature is relatively constant Now, green and verdant Bursting past spring to a Northern California summer like it has for thousands of years before we settled here, along the river. The birds and the grass don’t know that we no longer congregate in groups we no longer sit together in halls or ball parks or concerts or theaters. We no longer wander museums, scratching our heads at modern art and we don’t ride the train or the subway or the metro anymore We haven’t gotten close enough to someone strange to sniff their hair or to observe the color of their eyes and how the rim around the light caramel brown is darker and how there are chips of color scattered on the iris The squirrels, the geese, the fish don’t know and they don’t hardly care even if they could put a name on it. But the wind still blows, pushing clouds across a wide western sky. The trees continue to lean and sway. The river water continues its rushing journey. They are older than us. Here before. Here after. How small our discomfort is when viewed against this backdrop. A backdrop of sky and stars clouds, wind, sun setting where it always has. How small we are. How big everything else. How big. It will endure.