Perhaps this is why we feel so drawn to trees. Groves of redwoods and beeches are often compared to the naves of great cathedrals: the silence; the green, filtered, numinous light. A single banyan, each with its multitude of trunks, is like a temple or mosque-a living colonnade. But the metaphor should be the other way around. The cathedrals and mosques emulate the trees. The trees are innately holy. – Colin Tudge, The Secret Life of Trees
Aspens stand as sentinels in grey-white coats trimmed with black accents.
The sleekness of their trim trunks is a witness to their strength.
At the lower elevations, the photosynthesis process is quite apparent.
Succulent greens ripen to luscious yellows.
Yellows mature into precious golds whose richness brings warmth to the spirit.
At the middle elevations the coloring process has ended.
Clusters of dried brown leaves cling to the edges of branches.
They provide the instrument through which the wind is given a voice.
At the higher elevations, snowfall blankets their roots.
Here the almost colorless color highlights the starkness of the horizontal and vertical planes.
Their dullness echoes the chills in my body.
Their purpose is not to provide a weary soul with respite or even comfort.
Instead they inspire.
For their top limbs stretch their branches ever upward.
The physicality of such may be an impossibility.
Yet the mere fact that they try is fulfillment.
It is the trying that is necessary.
Achievement really isn’t the prize.