There’s something about the changing of seasons. The skin sheds from the serpent’s back and the foxes change into their new coats. Some seasons feel cold and like the night lasts forever. The stars are covered by clouds and all we have is the pollution to breath in. Inhale. Exhale. The summers are hell and the winter is bone chilling. Somewhere, as the leaves fall, the hope dies. The cycle of life and death repeats once more as I, the tree, die once again.
I’m not quite sure whether I am a pine or a willow. I could be a maple or an oak. All I know is that my roots need nourishment and I enjoy the company of others. I think we trees are stronger as forests; harboring those who seek shelter. It’s funny how life works.
I never thought I would be a tree. In fact, I once was a man, but that was another life. It’s strange to see the perspectives of each life because they all have the same ups and downs. One day I was minding my own business and then someone struck me down. That was the day that I became a tree. I fear one day that someone will strike me down again. This time, it might be even worse.
People tend to want to use me rather than appreciate me. I’m only pleasant when I look the way that they want. I’ve seen this before, and it’s not pretty. One of my neighbors, who was also a tree, was cut down simply because some men wanted to put a cattle farm down. Why would they need more of those? My other neighbor was cut down to be made into a dresser. I even had a cousin who was cut down to make paper. Why can’t we just be trees?
Out of all of these times I’ve been alive and seen both death and birth, I have never seen anything like this before. I am, however, dying just like they have. Maybe one day I will help others see that you don’t have to cut them down to fit the image that you want them to be.