I love the linden tree in spring – its deep green heart-shaped leaves and full branches remind me of childhood days when hiding in the hollow trunk of the linden I felt secluded and safe. I was carefree there with chickadees as my companions until the light of evening cast its somber hue.
In summer the bamboo grove as the top leaves sway gently in the early morning breeze and below the earth is pungent and warm. The narrow path that winds through the grove is evocative, mysterious. One surely must follow to places unknown.
In autumn the Japanese maple alive in crimson leaves graces my garden with splendor and longing, whispering of poets long past who sang its fragile beauty. Should I look out at dawn and see that the maple has died, my spirit soon would follow.
In winter the spruce, with fragrant branches that reach toward the sky. How comely it looks adorned in festive lights, how willing to serve late into the night as a beacon of protection and warmth. But in the New Year as the lights come down, how relieved the weary spruce must be.
l e a m i l l a y 