Tomorrow, Gareth and I will be making poems out of tree leaves with students at Newtown Public. The leaves will be attached to a magical tree for display along King Street during September.
Outside the day is getting older. My trees, that are yours but not yours, are bent with such sadness it is as if they can’t believe one day they won’t exist. Strange, because earlier in the day these same bark beauties were powerful in their shape.
Flicking through a book on trees I found a quote I wrote down not so long ago. This quote seems to speak the space I write in, the space which grows and grows from content not contempt.
All it has experienced, tasted, suffered:
The course of years, generations of animals,
Oppression, recovery, friendship of sun and – Wind
Will pour forth each day in the song
Of its rustling foliage, in the friendly
Gesture of its gently swaying crown,
In the delicate sweet scent of resinous
Sap moistening the sleep-glued buds,
And the eternal game of lights and
Shadows it plays with itself, content.
Herman Hesse, 1877 – 1962
