In autumn they acquiesce, their bright yellow needles cover the ground, abandoned confetti strewn by failing light, falling temperatures. Hammered by winter, they endure scant sunlight, the gelid air clamping down hard, harder still over muskeg muffled in snow and hoarfrost. Spring runoff saturates the bog, soaks the latticework of shallow roots as new needles burst bright green along […]
Birches know about longing. From October to May they wait. Wait. Wait for winter to relinquish its grip. Sheathed in their elegant skins, limbs anticipate the change, a tap on the shoulder, bright coins of light pressed into their boughs. By early May, tree wells open, sleeves of snow fall slack, relax into thawing ground. Sap rises cell by cell until
Come sit with me. Bring whatever you’re carrying, small griefs, large ones. Set them down on the forest floor. If you’ve come in spring when birch buds release their clasped leaves, think about someone you’ve lost, how they offered you this same exuberance. In summer, the swish and rustle of aspens will winnow around you. Bluebells will blossom, remind you
