Heirlooms | A Poem

Garnering the patience of oak trees

A few months ago, I was fortunate to take a hike through one of Pennsylvania’s old-growth forests. Upon entering the 122-acres of untouched land, the surrounding sounds took on a hushed and clarified quality. I imagined layers of leaves and ringed tree trunks absorbing the birdsong, breeze, and movements of bugs. Do I dare count myself among these?

I could not even conceive of the girth of these trees, let alone their height. They towered in quiet confidence, having seen and known more than I surely ever will. I was panged by grief in realizing that this is what a forest ought to be. The forests I know and frequent are minute in proportion to this grandeur.

We have acclimated to patterns of hurry, and we have inflicted this onto the trees. We do not have their patience, inheriting sturdiness and intricacy only over the span of centuries. I cast my eyes to the ground and take note of their faith, sowing the seeds that may never be fully realized.