Wake, butterfly -
It's late, we've miles
To go together.

~ Matsuo Basho

When I was younger, I had a dream where I visited every tree I had ever known from my childhood. In college, when I was upset (which was a lot), I found solace by sitting underneath the trees on campus.

Trees are powerful creatures. Make no mistake - they are alive.

I dread the day when the two oldest trees in the backyard of the home I grew up in die. They have been trimmed and cared for by my father and their trunks have bulged out. The one with the low branches - the one my sister and I used to climb - sits wide open to the sky, still approachable. The one with the high branches - the one my sister and I wanted to climb, but could never reach - still sits tall, only slightly giving in to gravity and the passing of time.

What surprises me, though, are the younger trees. They are now tall too. And they fill the yard and almost touch each other (if you only knew how barren our little acre was back then - an acre my sister and I grudgingly mowed and weeded in the hot Texas sun). The little oak tree we inherited from my grandmother is now massive and the pear trees (the ones we thought wouldn't make it) bear so much fruit the branches hang down almost to the ground.

The home I grew up in is now covered in trees. Somehow, I find this comforting.