My daughter says

every tree has a soul.

Some are good, some are bad.

But always, a soul.

My daughter is young enough

to know these things.

My daughter says also

some trees have a spirit.

(But only the good trees.)

People, too.

She is old enough 

to say these things.

Guided by spirit, we can grow 

from the crack in a boulder.

We can lift sidewalks.

We bend and yet are strong.

We flower, we bear fruit, we give seed.

We are where the raccoon sleeps, 

the hawk nests, the monkeys play.

Without the spirit we twist, 

we wither, we break.

With the spirit our roots take hold. 

My daughter knows. So young, so old.


This poem first appeared in Dove Tales.
Used here with the author's permission.