In the susurrations of trees

I love to listen to the wind in the trees, in any season. I can remember the birch tree outside my childhood bedroom window, shivering in a bitter Illinois winter breeze. The wind stirring the oak tree outside my study. The sound of the wind in the pines in my neighbor’s yard, creaking like a bed of charcoal in the fireplace.

A couple of weeks ago I listened to a piece on the BBC about the sussuration of trees, the sounds trees make when their leaves move in the wind. Those with discerning ears can identify a tree by its rustling.

This morning I looked out my office window to see the trees in the plaza outside the building sporting leaves...of paper. I braved the cold to find out what was up. Each of the pieces of paper had a poem on it, some familiar (e.e. cummings), some not. A gift of another way to listen to leaves on a tree from a first year Balch seminar. And so I met a new poet, Joy Harjo, whose words rustled in my mind tonight as I cleared up the dishes.

“To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can’t see, can’t hear;
Can’t know except in moments...”

Read the rest here.