There are pale green buds and flowers on the pecan tree just outside my window. It is a strange looking occurrence--one that I had never fully noticed. Twigs extending out from massive limbs look to have been decorated by a loving hand.
The tree's trunk Vs and then slants into Vs on either side of the original. When the rains come her strong bark is covered in a layer of lime green moss. As the second V to the right rises, there is a patch of fern that lies dormant until water penetrates bark, soaking thirsty roots, enabling green fronds to live. The bark, colored in pale gray and whitish brown, rises and sinks into the hills and valleys of the tree trunk.
To touch her massive trunk is to feel yesterday and today and forever. Rising up to the heavens her branches resemble a hand with fingers outstretched and grasping for what she can't quite reach. She continues. Season after season. She continues.
Come spring, she sleeps in for awhile, waiting out the last cool breeze before she buds and flowers. The winds blow and she accepts help from others. The tiny yellowish buds grow into finely toothed leaflets that shade the earth during long hot summers.
In August she yearns for a drink. The harvest will be bountiful if the universe hears her plea. Incubated in the care of nature clustered in two to ten individuals her fruit awaits maturity.
The heat abates. The earth breathes a deep breath. Fleshy shuck that held her babies splits into four regular seams releasing her fruit to the ground. It is harvest time. The universe celebrates.
The nights are getting longer. Winter is coming. Her leaves become nutrients to feed her roots. They turn yellow and drop to the ground. She will rest for awhile.
Her fingers, stripped of decoration, stretch even higher in silent meditation.
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is a writer from Georgia, USA. You can read her work in