Man doth usurp all space,
Stares thee, in rock, bush, river, in the face,
Never yet thine eyes behold a tree;
‘Tis no sea thou seést in the sea,
‘Tis but a disguised humanity. ~Henry Sutton
Just the other day, I saw, or I think I saw, a Tree. It was a matter of seeing a thing a thousand times without seeing; the thousand-and-first glimpse is the very first glimpse again, brand new. I looked at Trees a thousand times, and then, suddenly, I saw a Tree.
Usually, when I look at Trees, I see fingers and arms with green or autumn clothes and capes. In winter the Trees have knuckles and ribs and fingernails.
But just the other day, I looked at a Tree, and it looked familiar to me; I tried to place its face, and I realized that it did not have a face. For a fleeting moment, I did not see anything human about Trees. They reminded me, poignantly, of Branches, and Twigs, and Leaves, hanging brown and cold. I looked at a Tree; and, to my amazement, it reminded me of a Tree.
I am looking at Trees out the window right now, and trying to count to a thousand; so far, every one looks vaguely human, bony men and woman standing out in the snow. They do not mind the cold. I am waiting to find one that reminds me again of a Tree.
~Joy
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