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Welcome to beatiful trees. Please, stay, sit, and enjoy, as if you were sitting under a beautiful tree.

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1 Response so far »

  1. 1

    dontdontoperate said,

    It’s been two years. Time to update…
    I want more nature blog! I want more beautiful trees!

    Here’s a poem by John Steffler, that has some lines about trees:

    Driving from Stephenville in the late October
    dusk — the road swooping and disappearing ahead
    like an owl, the hills no longer playing dead
    the way they do in the daytime, but sticking their black
    blurry arses up in the drizzle and shaking themselves,
    heaving themselves up for another night of
    leapfrog and Sumo ballet — some

    trees detached themselves from the shaggy
    shoulder and stepped in front of the car. I swerved

    through a grove of legs startled by pavement, maybe a
    hunchbacked horse with goiter, maybe a team of beavers
    trying to operate stilts: it was the

    landscape doing a moose, a cow
    moose,
    most improbable forest device. She danced
    over the roof of our car in moccasins.

    She had burst from the zoo of our dreams and was
    there, like a yanked-out tooth the dentist
    puts in your hand.

    She flickered on and off.
    She was strong as the bible and as full of lives.
    Her eyes were like Halley’s Comet, like factory whistles,
    like bargain hunters, like shy kids.

    No man had touched her or given her movements geometry.

    She surfaced in front of us like a coelacanth, like a face
    in a dark lagoon. She made us feel blessed.

    She made us talk like a cage of canaries.

    She reminded us. She was the ocean wearing a fur suit.

    She had never eaten from a dish.
    She knew nothing of corners or doorways.

    She was our deaths come briefly forward to say hello.

    She was completely undressed.

    She was more part of the forest than any tree.
    She was made of trees. The beauty of her face was bred
    in the kingdom of rocks.

    I had seen her long ago in the Dunlop Observatory.

    She leapt from peak to peak like events in a ballad.

    She was as insubstantial as smoke.

    She was a mother wearing a brown sweater opening her arms.

    She was a drunk logger on Yonge Street.

    She was the Prime Minister. She had granted us a tiny
    reserve.

    She could remember a glacier where she was standing.

    She was a plot of earth shaped like the island of
    Newfoundland and able to fly, spring down in the middle of
    cities scattering traffic, ride elevators, press pop-eyed
    executives to the wall.

    She was charged with the power of Churchill Falls.

    She was a high explosive bomb loaded with bones and meat.
    She broke the sod in our heads like a plow parting the
    earth’s black lips.

    She pulled our zippers down.

    She was a spirit.

    She was Newfoundland held in a dam. If we had touched her,
    she would’ve burst through our windshield in a wall of
    blood.

    That night we were ravenous. We talked, gulping, waving
    our forks. We entered one another like animals entering
    woods.

    That night we slept deeper than ever.

    Our dreams bounded after her like excited hounds.


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