The dead trees are occupying more and more of my thought, lately. I have even dreamed of them. It seems everywhere I go, I see more and more of them. Tomorrow will be the first day of spring, and these trees know it. In the winter, all trees appear dead, but of course, we know they are not. In the winter, we cannot easily tell the living from the dead, and the dead trees quietly join the dance. But soon the living trees will take over the landscape, and the dead skeletons will slink back into the forest, unnoticed. In the winter, the dead trees can pretend they are part of the living again. In the summer, they are cast out and cannot come back from the great divide.
Then the perfume of spring will waft down upon us like a
sweet-scented opium cloud, and all memory of the dead trees will leave our
minds. We will forget them because the
Sun King has returned at last with his entourage of knights all draped in
brilliant silks. The musicians will play
their haunting melodies, and we will become intoxicated once again with the
fruits of the land. How easily we
forget.
Back into the shadows, then, they creep. Sunlight is their destroyer. They will bide their time until the wheel of
the year turns for them again. And it
always does. It is the way of things.
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| The last day for the dead trees. |
