He would come to me in early morning,
When the sun barely graced the horizon,
Raise an arm to brush against my branches,
Take a seat at my roots, pat my bark
And read, out loud, a whisper,
(but trees can hear greater than humans)
A story about a forest that was sentient
On a distant, alien planet.
(you truly don’t need to look so far)
He would edit as he went, breaking off –
To change this phrase or that,
Shuffle up a paragraph,
Scribble out a speech.
Some days it was a page,
Others it was hundreds.
Most days he would talk to me, ask my opinion.
He would smile to himself, unaware,
He cannot hear my replies.
I have always been stubborn.
I am the only seedling to have sprouted this side of the river;
My resolve is enough to keep me strong in barren soil.
As he read to me, I found purpose:
Move.
Yes, I grow towards the sun,
But that is what humans would call a reflex
(trees move much slower than humans,
you see, they have no motivation)
This human, this creature, gave me motivation:
To go beyond myself, my being.
He gave me what it is to be human.
It was a leafless day when I found my first success.
The waving grass glittered in early sunlight,
First frost of the year.
He had sat with me that morning,
Breaths clouding albicant in the air,
A cushion to keep out the cold and the hard-packed soil.
His reading was punctuated by sniffs and sharp breathing,
Trailing off to stare out over the park.
He stroked my bark with a gloved hand in his hush.
“Do you think people will notice my bruise?”
He touched his fingers to a splash across his cheek,
Mottled red, blue, purple, brown.
A new word, a word not spoken by trees:
Bruise.
He sat long in silence, then stood and left;
He did not look back.
That day I strained and screamed at my branches to move,
If I had been human I would have been scarlet-faced,
Brow crumpled,
Spittle flying from my lips
(or so I imagine from stories)
But I am not human.
But I moved.
An inch, a swish of branches,
Untouched by breeze or wandering hands,
I moved.
By night I was walking.
The world is so much bigger than I imagined.
I did not walk far,
Merely to the crest of the hill,
But from there I could see twinkling lights stretched out
Like stars of the ground,
Like something from a dream.
I settled back by the river in time for dawn,
Anticipation sending frissons through my branches.
What would I do when he came in the morning?
Run a branch through his hair like the lovers in his stories?
Surprise him, tickle him, make him laugh,
(he had not laughed in so long)
Twist branches into words: ‘hello’, ‘I come in peace’,
‘I love you’.
Would he be afraid?
Would he think himself ill, or drugged,
As in Chapter 14?
In his stories he hopes for harmony,
But, tree though I may be,
I know that theory and reality are different.
He has taught me something else:
Fear.
He has not returned.
I have watched children grow and sprout children of their own
And he has not returned.
I do not move.
I am waiting.
(trees have patience longer than human lifespans)
It is dawn.
It is summer, the sun comes early,
Too early for humans to be up and about,
Even the fast ones in their harsh neon.
And yet -
There is a man, pruned in the way that humans become over time.
He raises an arm, smiles as he feels the brush of my leaves.
There is something familiar about this gesture.
He sits,
Nestled in that most sacred of spots where no one has sat for a very, very long time.
He reads,
A story about a forest on a distant planet,
A forest that is sentient.
I listen.
And I do not move.
