I remember the first time I hugged a tree, it was a mighty old oak, too large for me
The hug was a result of my clumsy attempt to tie a yellow ribbon for the hostage’s sake
I didn’t really know what any of it meant —
I was just a little gnome on Jefferson Street
Hostage, against your will; the trees kept their promises of guiding us home
I remember the first time I injured a tree;
I was in Leo’s orchard on Lighthouse Road with a rusty jack knife
I thought I was stealthy enough to sneak into a corner to carve the name first love of my young life
The task proved harder than I thought
I only managed to carve an S, not Scott
As I completed the first letter, I heard a noise, looked up and saw my Grandpas deep brown eyes;
he was dark and wrinkled with arms as powerful as any hardwood
His old body was always leaning like the heavily tilted pine that hovered over the tire path to our cottage
I remember the time I first spoke to a tree, I named him Seymour because he grew endlessly —
In my father’s warm apartment, his little shop
When Dad moved to assisted living, I had no choice but to butcher this tropical tree
‘I’m sorry Seymour’ I said as I laid his waxy body on the cold garage floor sawing and snipping,
I could sense he was sore
For 3 days he laid in the cold dark, in a wilted heap, I tipped him up right and spoke to him with a soft whisper
‘C’mon Seymour, I need you to pull through, you’re the one who kept Dad company through all his suffering,
please live’
I remember the first time I named the trees Celadon and Chartreuse, such a lovely couple
I’ve seen the likes of them everywhere from the Huntington and Brook Green Gardens
to the bluffs of the Great Mississippi Corridor
wild and free trees seem to care a little more
Celadon, tall, and trim with a perfect quiet posture,
Chartreuse on the other hand, although statuesque leans a little forward
Green
Truly a lovely couple