My tree talks to me.
I pass it at least twice a day, approaching from a side road where it sits before me on a grass covered traffic island. I always stop and take a moment, check on it and see what it is saying.
Like a clock, it tells me the time of year. Late August or early September, the very tip of its crown suddenly turns a burgundy hue of brown. This sharply contrasting colour then becomes burnt orange, and almost imperceptibly slides gracefully through the remaining green leaves over the following few weeks until it has spread throughout.
On a still, misty November morning after an overnight frost, the leaves will drop like falling tears, crying with me over the onset of winter, throughout which it will stand, moribund, hibernating, unspeaking.
Then just as the grip of winter begins to pull, my tree awakes Sleeping Beauty-like, whispering about the first signs of spring though a sheen of green buds.
Whatever is happening, wherever I’m going my tree is always there, patiently awaiting my return - it is humbling, grounding and good for the soul. And whenever I talk about ‘my tree’, I am always reminded by others that they love my special tree, just as much as I do.
Note: My tree is a Sycamore