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Poem: The Trees 

In my yard.
They are walking trees.
On most days
they walk from the potted
shrubs to the mailbox.
And that is all.
Lazy trees.

I asked the trees.
“Trees?
Will you walk with me to the store?
I’d feel so much safer if
I was not alone.”
They walked with me.

The next day.
“Trees? Will you stand in front
of my windows so
no one can see inside.
See what I do in there?”

They did not move.
They did not move at all.

Trees do not walk. Because
if trees could walk
I would teach them to run.
Put them to work.
Make them do things.

In exchange I would let them live
in my dirt.

I have good dirt.

Speaking of...

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    Michelle Sutton gets technical about these cone-bearing trees.
    • Apr 1, 2016
  • Editor's Note: Catalpa
  • Editor's Note: Catalpa

    Proust had his madeleine, the cookie that crumbled in his tea and released the legendary flood of memories in his masterwork. Walking through the park one August morning, I spotted a catalpa tree. The sight of its enormous dangling green beans was enough to send me tumbling through the years till I spilled out on the lawn of my childhood home, a boy again, underneath the massive leafy crown of the catalpa I knew growing up.
    • Sep 1, 2015
  • Lesson 2

    • May 1, 2015
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