I imagine it is quite like a plant. There are dead ones and live ones. Thorny ones and delicate ones. Ones with strong roots to last the storms, and to get the water even when very little is to be had. There are rootless ones; and when the wind comes it will pull them apart. There are those that frequently sprout, like weeds in a country field. But the ones that sprout too often cannot stand the years, because when too many plants crowd the earth, they all die. Then there are the Giant Sequoia's. My God, the ones that last the years and occupy the coast. They grow and grow, sometimes producing thirty-cubic feet of beautiful wood a year. The kind that everyone drives two-thousand miles to see. Young kids wonder what it's like to grow roots like theirs; and old folks are comforted by their presence through the decades. Romantic ladies dream about having one to call their own, and all grown men really want is to be a part of the family of trees.
We all want it. Every one of us. Love as big as a tree.
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I was recently told by someone that the love they felt for me was like a bonsai tree, and while they hoped it would grow up to be a sequoia, it got to its little bonsai-size and stopped. And they tried to egg it on to grow up, and it didn't.
ReplyDeleteMeanwhile mine became like that of der Lindenbaum, of an old lime tree.
I'm kind of mad at trees right now.