A Million Trees

Two
by Jean Linville
long, thin squeak
cold dry branch
cold dry branch
early morning air

As a child, I would feed mulberry leaves to silkworms kept in a shoebox. Outside, there were lemons to pick and ginkgo leaves to look at --their unusual shape was different from all the others. Along riverbanks were tall cottonwoods and in the foothills stood stately valley oaks. Knowing the names of trees was a natural thing,like knowing a horse from cow, a dog from a cat. But today, most Californians know a Lexus from a Mercedes, but couldn't tell you the names of the trees that they pass each day. Call it a horticultural disconnect. That our wetlands, canyons, foothills, wildlife and riparian systems have been quickly being covered up for a plague of beige houses shouldn't be a surprise.

Tucked amid a proposal for more police, the takeover of schools, and higher garbage fees was the only thing that everyone could agree on. Mayor Villagairosa wants to plant "a million trees." He foresees an urban forest, a place where one may admire the shape of the tree, stand beneath its' canopy on the hottest of days, and on windy days -- listen as the sound of the clatter of branches fills the air and watch as the leaves change color and fall, reminding us of the passage of time, and our mortality.

Give us oaks, sycamores, birches, alders, liquid amber, cottonwoods and ashes. Toss in a few streets lined in Jacaranda so that in the spring, the yards will be festooned with a royal carpet of purple blooms. And plant some myrtles, so that we may enjoy the pink flowers, and the smooth shiny bark. But no more palms. They do nothing for me. Palms grow so high and inevitably, some poor guy has to climb up to clean them out. No bottlebrush trees that look like they should have stayed in the Australian outback, nor ficus that are rarely allowed to get as big as they should. But trees have needs. They have to bepruned, shaped so that they stay looking like one. Leave the hacking to those in places like Irvine, who treat them as a Stepford Wifes, hacking at odd angles, lopping canopies to make them smaller; less messy. Let us have the sumptuous pleasure of raking, piling and jumping into a pile of leaves. Soon, everyone will know a sycamore from an elm, an oak from an ash.

Yes, give us trees: big and broad, grand and stately. Crowns that reach to the sky, where we can stand, and children can climb and dream.















Breath
by J. Daniel Beaudry
Tree, gather up my thoughts
like the clouds in your branches.
Draw up my soul
like the waters in your root.

In the arteries of your trunk
bring me together.
Through your leaves
breathe out the sky.