I am one of those beings that is changed by place and time.
However, I am a tree.
My feet are not on the earth, but sunk deeply into the clay. I take my strength from subterranean rivers and I raise my branches very high into the blue of the sky.
I am a tree whose thoughts wander, and onto whose branches the birds of my nights come to perch. My small green leaves flutter in the evening breeze. They sadly fall off when the winter comes.
I am dominated by ultraviolet light. I give shelter to insects; I find sustenance in their music.
The bats caress my bark lovingly with their velvet wings. And they look at me with their heads upside down.
The children have fun with me. And I enjoy their laughter and their sticky hands.
I am a tree that stretches itself out. A tree that moans, too. Mobile, I sail through bad weather. The clouds are my friends, puppets of my dreams and masters of my well-being. I am a tree which lives for a long time and which may be broken. I want to be engraved with a proud heart for eternity, one stormy night when two crazy people take shelter under my leaves. To start all over again.
I am a tree planted on a hill opposite the lake.
A tree photographed every season by a blue woman.
I am the tree of the motionless snow, which scarcely breathes.
I am the green tree, with the leaves that unfold, like joyous little fans.
I am the tree of the great heatwaves, which shelters you in its shade so that you can read.
The tree of silent sharing.
And then, I am that flaming tree shouting in pain. I am losing my hair, which colors the wind, crumpled in the hands of children.
But above all, I am there.
A tree of knowledge and of sin, a tree of your love letters, a piano tree, a tree of secrets, a tree house, a tree of fire.
I am here. You are holding me in your hand.
Translated by Wendy Cross