The Perpetual Grief of Trees

This is the story of a romance as old as life. A romance between the trees and the intangible thing above ground it seems to ache for.

A seed of truth was dormant in my chest. It’s been five months since it germinated. The cavernous chambers burst open at the rush of air, of fellow truth.

Aided by long August days of potent sunlight, it blossomed fast and hard, bound by predestination to entwine with… her

She is the air itself, and I breathe her in for life.

But the days grew weary as Autumn spurred the change of pace. I relished in the usual contemplation and reflection found among the ambers and reds aloft in that sweet azure Aether

It was inevitable, and that sweetness first lost taste, and then became chilled and bitter as the sky ducked behind the horizon more frequently. Air still there, but impossible to grasp enough unless to risk tearing apart the very atmosphere itself in search.

The tree of love which had burst from my heart would have to hibernate, while my grounded body mourned the silence; a sort of death so far from quietus with the inevitable reawakening so far away.

As I lie cold in wait, I ponder whether it will ever come at all. I feel like I’m suffocating. There is no denying that the tree in winter evokes the lament of spirit. Bare arms outstretched to the point of wreckage, reaching for something we can’t even see let alone comprehend. Soak up enough to stay alive, but forever dying.

Spring will indeed come. It comes hand in hand with the frost, as we know. But my soul pleads that this be the last rite of spring. A final end to the circle of erupted love followed by indescribable grief. Do the trees truly remember? For if they do, I cannot imagine, for we are witness to the greatest pain possible.

How long has it been said it’s better to love than to never love at all? Is it that the knowledge of something so amazing makes its absence even harder to bear? But has anyone ever asked the trees? By my record, every leaf lost is the child of a sorrowing parent who’s attended that mass funeral every year for centuries. Is it the comfort of spring, or the fear of winter that they live by? ….That I shall live by?