Trees are neither silent nor still; they move into the minds of those who walk among them."

The title of this post is the first two lines of a poem I wrote when I was at work one day.  On my lunch hour, I ALWAYS left the building and took a walk.  One day, walking on King Street in Gloucester City, by the old Coast Guard Station (Once an immigration station for Irish immigrants) I passed some red leaves in the fresh white snow.

I have always been a tree lover since the first tree I met on my block in South Philadelphia, where trees were rare amidst the canyons of red brick.  

A poem began to write itself in my mind.  Trees move and they also enter your thoughts when your mind is quiet and you walk among them.

"Trees are neither silent nor still; they move into the minds of those who walk among them
They write their poetry in chemistry on sidewalks
Leave red love letters in white snow."

I decided to put the poem here because I used it in a painting I am putting into a show at the Haddonfield Fortnightly Spring Art Show:  Through a Woman's Eyes. 

In my times of despair and sorrow, I have always gone to the woods or the parks and walked in the companionship of the trees.  They have saved me.  They have restored my peace with their quiet strength and endurance, the example they have set. 

I have 18 trees in my yard and to me they are like neighbors or even like family.  We have been together for 35 years in heavy icing, thick snow, howling wind, raging flooding downpours, blazing sun, and we have stood together.  They have sheltered me and my little house and they have stood strong against the elements.  Soon they will be unfurling their new fresh leaves and another season of shady joy will be upon us.

Perhaps the second touching experience beyond the tree on my street in South Philadelphia was Arbor Day in my grade school when we planted a tree and sang:

Trees

BY JOYCE KILMER

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.