"Backyard Splendor" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
I have stood longer than memory, my roots drinking deep from hidden springs, my crown lifted into the endless sky. Seasons have clothed me, stripped me, crowned me in splendor, and veiled me in silence. I endure, and in enduring, I remember.
In the first blush of spring, I tremble with tender shoots, the quickening pulse of life coursing once more through my veins. Birds weave their fragile homes among my branches, and the laughter of small creatures stirs the forest floor. I rise, eager, renewed, as the wheel of life begins again.
Summer swells with fullness. My boughs spread wide, vast green sails catching both storm and sunlight. I have borne witness to thunder’s roar and to golden evenings when the air was heavy with fragrance and song. Beneath my shade, hearts have rested, and in my branches, generations have sung their brief, sweet music.
Then autumn comes, my festival of fire. I burn in crimson and gold, a last triumphant hymn before the quiet. Each leaf that falls is a prayer returned to earth, each gust of wind a dance, scattering fragments of my glory across the world.
Winter follows, cloaked in silence. Snow lays its white hand upon me, and I bow beneath its stillness. Yet within my roots the memory of spring is kept, hidden but not lost. In the hush, I dream, and the dream is life itself.
I have seen your kind come and go, building homes, raising children, whispering promises beneath my branches. I hold all of it—the laughter, the sorrow, the long passage of years. I remain. I endure. I remember.
* * * * * * * * * *
And then—suddenly—the vision dissolved. The voice of the tree ebbed into silence, and I awoke to the soft, shimmering notes of Joshua Bell’s violin, Dvořák’s Song to the Moon rising like light over water.
It was morning. The wee cottage was quiet, the day still unwritten. Steam curled from my coffee cup, and the world seemed to pause, offering its blank page. A new day had begun—waiting to be filled with adventure, with love, with hope, with wisdom.
"Every morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most." ~Buddha
~Wylddane
In the first blush of spring, I tremble with tender shoots, the quickening pulse of life coursing once more through my veins. Birds weave their fragile homes among my branches, and the laughter of small creatures stirs the forest floor. I rise, eager, renewed, as the wheel of life begins again.
Summer swells with fullness. My boughs spread wide, vast green sails catching both storm and sunlight. I have borne witness to thunder’s roar and to golden evenings when the air was heavy with fragrance and song. Beneath my shade, hearts have rested, and in my branches, generations have sung their brief, sweet music.
Then autumn comes, my festival of fire. I burn in crimson and gold, a last triumphant hymn before the quiet. Each leaf that falls is a prayer returned to earth, each gust of wind a dance, scattering fragments of my glory across the world.
Winter follows, cloaked in silence. Snow lays its white hand upon me, and I bow beneath its stillness. Yet within my roots the memory of spring is kept, hidden but not lost. In the hush, I dream, and the dream is life itself.
I have seen your kind come and go, building homes, raising children, whispering promises beneath my branches. I hold all of it—the laughter, the sorrow, the long passage of years. I remain. I endure. I remember.
* * * * * * * * * *
And then—suddenly—the vision dissolved. The voice of the tree ebbed into silence, and I awoke to the soft, shimmering notes of Joshua Bell’s violin, Dvořák’s Song to the Moon rising like light over water.
It was morning. The wee cottage was quiet, the day still unwritten. Steam curled from my coffee cup, and the world seemed to pause, offering its blank page. A new day had begun—waiting to be filled with adventure, with love, with hope, with wisdom.
"Every morning we are born again. What we do today is what matters most." ~Buddha
~Wylddane
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