Overview

What ""dead trees"" mean to me is hardly complex, although it might seem a bit reaching for some. ""Dead trees"" are simply the ""souls of remembrance."" The enduring. The ""still standing."" The dusty, dirty, worn-out, beat-up. The mostly weathered, sometimes wronged, and often regretful. They are the old ""shadow casters"" that hold their place against new days. They slump, they tilt, they lean, but they somehow remain. They are the hangers-on. They ask for nothing, short perhaps of the occasional acknowledgment in simply being. They are the ones that were here ""way back when."" They're the ones that bore witness to so much and so little. They are most of all those who stand convinced that they would have made a move if they could. If only they could have made more of a difference. They are the sorry, the remorseful, the woesome, and ""wondering still."" Not yet blown completely away on the cold breezes and hard, heated, sweltering days that blast then bake every new tomorrow. They may not have answers, but they have observations. They have a sense of perspective that so few would stop and care to ask about. They are the backdrop to times forgotten with their tired, old branches outreaching. No more leaves to drop. No more blossoms to draw attraction. But they would surely be the storytellers. They do have stories to tell. They may be tired, but they all have a little left. Those old dead trees, they were here way back when. Some are here still, and they do remember a few things. Won't you sit with me in the shade of a dead tree? We can imagine together just how many great stories it might have to share with the both of us.

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