Morning Conversations

 

In front of my house stands a great cedar. We've lived together for nearly twenty-five years. Most mornings we converse in a silent kind of speech. My hands against its trunk, I read its slow, deep pulse. And its shaggy bark feels the spread of my fingers, the breadth of my palms, the warmth of my skin. Face to face, we come to know each other. We talk about things for which there are no words, only the touch of hand and bark, the beat of blood and sap, the lifting of fronds and hair in wind.

Photo by Barry Troutman