From my window, I can see the tall pines in the park. They are dark and tall, like sentinels. They have known many years of the comings and goings of the human way.
I put my writing desk in front of this window so I could stare out at the tops of these trees, cutting the blue sky, the white sky, the pink sky, with their dark, knowing greenness.
My desk has become piled with my busyness- lists, checks, letters to write, pictures to file, rocks and leaves and gems laid out in little rows. When I try to write, my paper rests precariously on my cluttered space.
But the trees behind the windows are so still, so calm, as my mind swirls and my pen tries to make leeway on top of the tumbling piles. I strain to see each leaf, each needle, stationary and static.
Are they static, these tall memories? What do they remember in the ever-greenness of their beings? What do they know? Do they wonder about the mother I can see pushing her stroller beneath their drooping branches, or do they only know themselves?
Later today, I expect I will visit them, my trees, my companions behind the window. But just for now, I will see them from afar, wondering at their memories, noticing how their tops shoot up into the sky like pointy obelisks.