The Scent of Trees

Trees have a special interest in my heart, and I have always loved to walk among them, standing in their leafy shade. They have such unique and personal traits that no two trees can ever be the same. But what is the scent of trees?

A tree is like a person, with leafy hair cascading down their backs. The proud stand straight and tall like gentlemen, but the meek ladies bend gently in the wind, and those who are worn with age become gnarled and crooked. I wonder what their faces would be like, if you could see through their stylish bark.  Would she have pretty eyes as they look out upon the world, or would his eyes be closed, trying to blot out the memory of the present and look only back into the past?

Have you ever listened to a tree?  They are so merry and joyful when they rustle in the breeze.  With gentle murmurs and whispers they call to each other in a language all their own. But at times they shriek with anger, bowing and leaning, sparring with their neighbors.

A tree can be so textured that each has its own feel.  The elevated Aspen are powdered to hide their spots; the vain trees must cover all their blemishes, but are easily revealed.  The Pine Tree and its numbers spread vast across the land, but I wonder if they are woefully sad. Their sap runs down their rough bark, and maybe they are crying for a lost memory, or perhaps they're tears of joy.

What does a tree taste like?  The leaves are crisp and moist, probably with a sharp, tangy flavor that fill the entire senses with that overwhelming flood. Do they taste like the dirt in which they live?  And what of the bark?  Maybe it is crunchy, brittle, and terribly hard, or perhaps it is sweet, tender, and fleshy. But who would ever eat a tree?

With all the characteristics of these gentle giants, what more is there to say?  They live patiently in the suburbs waiting for a still, quiet peace to reign in the streets.  Others dance in the mountains, enjoying the freedom of fresh, undisturbed air.  Some, are tiny, baby saplings, sinking their roots into the dry soil, groping for water, groping for life.

But what indeed, is the scent of a tree?  Of course, a tree has its own perfume, much like her dress and touch, but what can a tree truly smell like?  I suppose it must be the smell of wisdom, age old creatures living upright in the world.  They gain knowledge, day after day, some are as old as the hills.  Think of an old book; surely, the wisdom of that recycled tree has passed on into legend and history, shedding the scent of understanding. Perhaps, that is the scent of a tree; the smell of wisdom.

"I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.  

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest  
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast; 

A tree that looks at God all day,  

And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

A tree that may in summer wear  

A nest of robins in her hair; 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 

Who intimately lives with rain.  

Poems are made by fools like me,  

But only God can make a tree."

~ Joyce Kilmer

The Deepest Beauty

This was a sight inspired by my front-room window this morning, at about 7:00 a.m.  I did not have the chance to take a picture, but with a bit of creative embellishment and the picture in my mind, I decided to share the view with you.

The world was glorious,
 and the sight took my breath away.  
I could even see it, steamed up against the glass,
like a frozen cloud clinging to the window.
But the sight beyond was even better...

The naked, bony trees had been covered
By the soft down of frosty white
And they shone in the light.
The trees had a glow of crystal,
And all the world seemed white with ice.

I was pleased to see the frosty white, 
But what took my breath away
was the morning sky.
The deepest blue of beauty,
Mixed gently with golden, gilded clouds. 

Oh, how could the world be so brilliant,
when all the world is full of sad?
I looked into the beauty,
And felt my spirit rise within me.
The world was beautiful despite the pain.

The world was glorious and it took my breath;
I could see the bony, naked trees
And the deepest morning sky.
I felt my spirit rise within me, despite pain
And all the world was golden, white, and beautiful. 

All the world seemed white with ice...

The Touch of the Wind

Do you know what the Moon tastes like?  Do you know what a Rose sounds like? Do you know what the Wind feels like?  For that is the question of today, so let us discover, the Touch of the Wind. 


The wind is a mysterious beauty to me, for none have ever seen it, but only what it can do. The wind is ungraspable, however close it seems to fly across the world. I wish that I could see the frivolous sprite as it whispers in the trees.

What would wind look like if it were not so quick and invisible? I think it would be a wild girl who roams across the world, murmuring to the trees, dancing over the water, and tickling the birds' feathers.  Her hair would streak behind her with untamed curls and tangles, and her face would be as sweet as sugar. But when she grows angry, I imagine her face to grow terrible with rage and she would scream and shriek with howls of ferocity.  What angers the wind, I wonder?

I think that the perfume of the wind changes with her mood.  When she's gentle, the warm smell of apple pie baking in an oven, or french baguettes being sold on the street, float softly through the air.  When she's stormy or harsh, the scent of rain, snow, and sleet fill the world with her changing mood.

The wind sounds like a river, sometimes, bubbling and mumbling as she passes by carelessly, and at other times, she tries to talk loudly over the noise of city chaos or country cattle with loud, harsh breathing.  Maybe that is why the wind grows angry, because we take little notice of her until she bites and claws at our ears with icy screaming.  The wind is rather temperamental.

But what does the wind feel like?  When she slips past us, we feel nothing but moving air, but if time could slow, I think that she would feel much like a serpent; slick and scaly, but not at all rough or scratched.  The wind is a serpentine wisp dancing through air, telling secrets from foreign lands, and beckoning us into her invisible embraces.

So, there are my imaginings on the flighty spirit of wind. If she had a face, what would she look like? If she had a voice, what would she say?  If she had a texture, if you could reach out and touch her, what would the wind feel like?

“Come Fairies, take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!”

~ William Butler Yeats

A Mountain Scrapbook

This weekend I had the immense and wonderful pleasure of packing into the car with my family and driving up the steep and amazing mountains of Colorado.  We went to see the leaves, and though I saw leaves, I saw a whole lot more. And so I will share with you the sights and beauties, through the art of words and photographs, in the hope that you might enjoy them with me too.

Each picture I took has its own little story to tell, so I shall let them do it in their own way.

"Once upon a time, there were mountains that stood big and strong in the hill-land of Colorado.  But people began to move there with saws and axes, horses and carts.  
They wanted to take a shortcut and move quickly through the mountains.  And so they started digging, blasting, and pushing their way through the hill, supporting it with heavy beams and strong logs.  And then the work was done;  noisy cars traveled through, whipping up dust, and stirring around dirt.  And still, after that once upon that time, the tunnel still stands.  I know, because I saw the light from the other side."

The floor of the forest is covered with a nice quilt of colorful leaves.  They keep the tree roots warm and tenderly tuck the vines and plants into their winter nap.  The leaves are all sizes, shapes, and hues fluttering down to the ground like snowflakes.  Maybe they are trying to be the snowflakes of autumn, knowing that they will never survive to the cold white of winter.  The aspen trees observe this happening, shaking their heads in mirth.  And as they shake, more leaves fall to the distant ground, floating and dancing on the chill mountain breeze.  The leaves are king, there in the woods, and they enjoy themselves, while they last...

"Home is behind, the world ahead,

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadow to the edge of night,

Until the stars are all the light.

Then world behind and home ahead,

We'll wander back and home to bed.

Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,

Away shall fade! Away shall fade!

~ J.R.R. Tolkien ~

The Sound of A Rose

I have written descriptively about the mysterious darling known as The Moon, and so I shall now try my hand in the garden.

Roses intrigue me as they sit quietly in a flower bed soaking up warm sunshine.  I don't know why, but my heart feels emotionally attached to the flowers.  What would life be without roses?

Red roses, pink roses, yellow, orange, white...There are so many different colored roses, variations, and breeds.  I wonder where they shop for such velvet ornaments as their petals.  I believe that roses must be very rich and wealthy if they can afford such sweet perfume and bright gowns.

Of course, a rose is known for its lovely smell, though some have more of a fragrance than others. And they're edible, too.  Thinking of a rose as a personification, it seems terrible to eat a delicate rose.  But if you think of them as sweet-scented, nice looking, flowers, I can imagine that they must taste rather nice.

Roses have a wonderful texture on their petals. They are like furless velvet cloaks surrounding them in a veil of color.  And the green stalks on which they stand so erect are smooth and woody, until you reach their dark, curved thorns.  The thorns on a rose have always surprised me; to think that such a lovely flower could have such an uncomfortable side, too.

I have puzzled over this matter and spent many brain cells trying to understand.  Perhaps it is that a rose is such a lovely prize, that they must protect themselves with their prepared thorns. Perhaps it is that a rose is the most human of flowers; they have hard and ugly faults on the outside, for all the world to see.  When the blossom opens, unfurls its tender petals, we can finally see the heart, and the bloom outshines our thorns. Or perhaps, the thorns of a rose were designed to be a mystery that we weren't meant to understand; God gave the rose a thorn like He gave a Zebra stripes, just because He wanted to.

I think that a rose has sound, if you listen carefully enough.  There is a haunting, melodic song that radiates from its center, that seems to permeate your soul.  I think the song is in a minor key, delicate and soft, but mysterious and lovely at the same time.  Roses are an orchestra or a choir, playing a song to which my heart dances.

"...But he that dares not grasp the thorn
Should never crave the rose."

~ Anne Brontë ~

A Garden Scrapbook

I have the most delightful and charming garden out behind my house.  It is smaller than some, and larger than others, but I have great pride in claiming that "bit of earth".  We grow all sorts of vegetables and flowers out in our garden.

Our vegetable garden is divided into six raised boxes in a lovely symmetrical rectangle.  The Carrots are renting a plot from us and they manage quite comfortably in a box of their own.  Not every vegetable is as well off as the pompous Carrot, however.  The whimsical Kohlrabi and the vibrant Chard must room together, too poor to live alone.  Tomatoes are my mother's special favorite, so they live lavishly in a covered box to be protected from heavy rain and destructive hail...

...My mother's special favorite...

...The pompous Carrot...

Our flower garden is a pleasant bed of roses, almost literally.  Pink, white, yellow, orange, and red Roses bask in the warm sunshine, allowing us to appreciate their sweet perfume and delicate verdure.  Snapdragons are also a well-established family, spreading rapidly throughout our flowers, making themselves well acquainted with every esteemed member of our garden society.

But it isn't only plants that live in our backyard.  We get visits from strutting Doves, frisky Squirrels, graceful Butterflies, and delicate Hummingbirds.  The Doves gather in flocks and sit upon our dark fence nodding in approval at what we plant.  The Squirrels appreciate our ornamental pear tree; so many times I have seen our friendly caretakers examining our garden beds with the most capricious  of attitudes up in the boughs of our tree.  The lovely Butterflies enjoy our garden with a special interest.  They come frequently to catch up on the latest blossom of gossip, leaning close to the pretty heads, soaking in the murmur of words and nectar.

...Roses bask in the warm sunshine...

And the Hummingbirds, they come and they go without a care.  They zip through the haughty Snapdragons, race among the passionate Roses, angering the flowers and insulting their pride. For the flowers know that my attention belongs to the gentle flowers, but it is quickly stolen by the tiny green birds that appear as if out of nowhere.

...The haughty Snapdragons...

I love my little garden, with all its merry, little plants and happy, pretty flowers. I love the strawberries that grow on it's pyramid box, I love the lilies that govern over the rest of the flowers, and I love the fluttering moths that come to visit with quiet strokes of their powdered wings.

My garden makes me happy and I long to bless others with its fruitful vegetation. So with that said, whoever, wherever you are, I hope that this Scrapbook can share a piece of my joy with you.  May it make you as happy as it makes me.

....I love the strawberries....

The Taste of the Moon

From our slow-rotating position here on the earth, we only get the smallest glimpse of the lovely satellite orbiting our world.  The luminescent moon reflects the sun's light onto the earth, and as it makes its circuit around us it shines on us in mysterious glory.  There is something about the moon that catches my attention, tugs at my heart strings, and sets me to wondering, and writing about it...

The moon makes no sound, she is silent as can be...  Not a word, not a noise, even when she is in her fullest phase.  Maybe the moon is mute, and her wistful face is sad, because she cannot speak to us.  I wish she could talk; I bet she would have the most beautiful stories to tell.

Does she smell as pleasant as she looks?  It is an odd question, but how does she smell?  Is it a dusty, dry smell, full of stale space-air?  Or, could it be a sweet, gentle perfume, like the kind a lady wears for a special occasion?  Does she even have a smell at all?

How does she moon feel?  I imagine that she is wearing a gold cloak of velvet.  If you were to run your hand over her garment, clouds of moon dust would splash into the air, radiant specks of light.  And underneath her cloak, is flesh of silver, smooth as glass, and twice as pretty...

I wonder if there could be a taste associated with the lady of the sky.  Is there a sweet taste, like honey, to fill your mouth, when you gaze up at her from your window?  Can you taste her from there?  Suppose she has a bitter taste, full of envy and frustration.  From time's first moments, she has been stuck in the same route every day.  Does she have a bitter heart, watching the comets dance their merry, backwards route?

The moon is pale and sickly, on some nights, hollow and worn in early morning, and full and blooming on other nights.  She, like us, has emotions, feelings, and something like a body, and she too can not hide it any better than we can.  Her joy is clearly visible when she dances at celestial parties, her sorrow is evident when she must go home, worn and muddled from her frolicking.  And when there are no balls, no gatherings, she must be lonely, for she has a wistful, sad air.

Does the shiny lady have a name?  Of course, she is called the Moon, by us, but is that her name?  Is it a simple, short name, like what we know her by, or is it an extravagant name that takes hours to learn to pronounce.  Does she even remember her name? Alone in the sky, with no one to call her by name, has she forgotten, or does she keep it secret?

What do you think of the moon and her doings?  What do you think she smells like?  Can you imagine the world from her eyes.  I can -- when I gaze from my window -- see her, and almost know she can see me.  She reflects the light of the sun, and I wish with all my heart I could be like her.  I wish to reflect the light of the Son, the one who made the moon, himself.  And then, maybe I could be as beautiful as she.

"Beauty is a form of genius -- is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts in the world like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark water of that silver shell we call the moon."
~ Oscar Wilde