Thanks, Lymerick.

TREES

by: Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

Several years ago when I decided to become a tree hugger, I discovered there's an initiation process I had to pass.
My first efforts consisted of embracing a tree and speaking to it in English. What I felt was the cold,slightly hostile bark of dismissal: "I am Tree, and I do not accept words, have no interest in them. You must come to me as you are."

Language is so central to my life as a communicator that it took some time for all this to sink in. I, it seems, had my own tough bark; its name was Language.

Finally, I learned to hug trees nonverbally, just wrap arms around them & press my body against them and sort of 'share beingness'.
Always walked away with a fresh, clean and loved feeling. Less arduous and cheaper by far than psychotherapy.

And just realized this instant that "oliver" means a tender of trees:)