The Place(s) Where We Live: Tree Houses

The small apartment where I live has always felt like a tree house thanks to the large picture windows that frame my second floor views. Glancing up from my computer monitor, I look out on a venerable possumhaw holly that changes with every season.

This lovely post from poet Camille Martin reflects on the simple gifts offered by the locust tree outside her window.


Thank you, locust tree outside my window. Hugging the north side of my building, you were always last to sprout leaves in spring. I waited and waited for the little buds at the tips of your branches to blossom. You played dead and I worried, and the relief was all the sweeter when you exploded into green.

In summer, your thousands of tiny leaves flitting in the breeze cooled and fanned me, and concealed my lover and me behind a screen of intricate patterns.

Your leaves were last in autumn to morph into a bright yellow curtain for my window, last to flutter to the sidewalk and stain it black with tannin.

Snow piled impossibly high on your stark winter branches, a lesson in fractals and exquisite monochrome.

Birds, squirrels, and insects have called you home, and so have I. For years I’ve lived in a treehouse. You eased my loneliness and gave me poetry.

Today, blue sky and almost no breeze, a good day for the tree cutters. Now you teach me impermanence, a lesson I learn even through tears. Eventually you’ll become soil in which other living things can grow.

Full article here.