Trees, ultimate mothers, they cast their green nets at the sun all day toiling, to harvest every drop of light, and with a secret hidden gentleness carry it like a child, one photon at at time, one electron at time, down rivers of physics to make sweets for you and me.

There there, always there, all day while we rove around our world killing, living, loving, hating, cutting them down, raising them up.

There there, always there, witnesses to armies coming and going, to sun and moon, to wind and rain. No legs to walk on, eyes to see, no ears to hear, just hands reaching out for light as if in prayer.

Sometimes I feel like they want to run away, at odds with their roots dug in, deep, branched, strong. They pull up, roots pull down. Where do they want to go? Away, away from something as if? Moving upwards into the heavens, moving downwards into the underworld, one side a lover of light, the other of darkness, One side an extrovert, the other an introvert.

Trees, embodiment of patience and resilience, attenders of their own funeral every year. The winters come harsh and murderous bullying them into nakedness and solitude. Naked are their branches, dead their children. But the memory is there, I can see them holding on to the ghosts of leaves around your branches not letting go. Through snow they hold on, along with their brethren and sisters.

There, there, waiting, until.

Oh the joy they show when spring finally arrives. How bright green supple leaves spring forth eagerly from awakening branches, ready to make sweets again. Nature welcomes and celebrates them with a well rehearsed play of frolicking butterflies, singing birds, buzzing bees, and gleeful hearts.

Trees, there there, always there.