My dear P.T. (Populus trichocarpa),
I feel silly writing this letter, not because I have reservations about my true feelings for you; rather, the silliness has more to do with how long it has taken me to admit how much I care about you.
I remember the time you stood in Cathedral Park, effortlessly tall and dressed in green. Not just any green — my favorite shade, the one that invites the eyes to consider the line between light and dark. It’s a green that embodies the essence of spring where everything is joyfully celebrating the gift of being alive.
You were among your friends, whispering, and it drew me closer. I wondered if you noticed the dogs splashing nearby in the river, or if you were discussing how much the area has changed since you were knee-high. I wasn’t sure if you noticed me, silently appreciating all you do to create shady spots for summer picnics, and how you hold the earth as the small creek swells with water during the rainy months.
Don’t think for a second this was the only time I stopped to admire you. I’ve seen you out my window, braced against the wind or wearing your golden autumn robes. When I’m tending to chores outside, I enjoy your murmuring, a deeper (yet no less lovely) chatter than that of your relative, the aspen. I’ve also noticed you across the river, offering support to a family of bald eagles. They trust you with such responsibility — their home and nest lie safely in your secure, tender embrace, and sometimes you get the joy of helping them protect and raise their young ones. We are all so lucky to share this place with you.
I recall when nearby wildfires bruised the sky. Many of us were bristling in apprehension and uncertainty. You swayed in the dry wind, but when the air stilled and thickened with smoke, you held our ground. Sometimes I look at that picture of you against that ominous sky and realize how desperately I wanted to protect you from harm. I’m so grateful the fire went out before it reached our home, and you remained a pillar in our landscape.
I’ve considered how to show you the fondness and gratitude I feel; if I could turn that into a gift for you, what might that look like? I would invite you near unsullied water, where you could send your roots deep into the earth and stabilize the banks. I would ensure you had unobstructed space in the sky so you could stretch your branches to your heartwood’s content. I’d invite your kin to be neighbors, because I know you love living among and supporting others in a thriving, healthy grove.
Thank you so much for all that you are and all that you do. Even the scent you effuse in the springtime is a delight, with notes of honey, earthy and sweet. Before I got to know you, I didn’t know where that fragrance was coming from, despite growing up alongside you. I’m so glad I now know you are the reason behind it, as it has woven my present into the past. The gift of your presence is not one I will ever take for granted.
All my love,
CY
Images by Cristen Y
