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I am a tree.

Do not cut me

down and keep me.

If you choose to

climb me, do so

carefully

and slowly.

I am covered in moss.

For some reason

moss grows

all over me. Don’t

tear it off, I

know it does not

clothe me or

ruin me if not on me.

Just don’t tear it off.

I like it. It’s

pretty. Animals

in the forest know

me by my moss,

they say “Hey,

let’s meet on

the moss-covered

one” or “take

a left at Mossy.”

I’m not a huge fan

of being

called ‘Mossy’. But

I’ll allow it if

it helps animals

get around. I

guess that makes me some sort of

landmark.

I had no idea,

when I was just a

wee seed, that I’d

grow up to be a

landmark, here in the forest.

Like I said, for some

reason moss grows all over me.

Moss chooses me to be its

body and I don’t have too much control

over who uses my body and

who doesn’t.

I’m alive but a rather stationary bloke.

Who wants me to move around, anyway.

I’m a

point in this

forest’s geography.

I tell younger plants all the time

that they shouldn’t plant themselves

beneath me, below my branches.

They won’t get much sun and

very little water.

That being said,

to all young kids,

don’t play around me

if you are imagining

yourselves to be lumberjacks.

It hurts me when you

fake chop at my trunk.

When you all leave I

begin to cry because, even

if you didn’t, you pretended

to chop me down, to

cut me down and make me a house

or canoe or wood for your

kitchen table or dad’s expensive speakers.

I am not those things.

I am a tree, you see, and trees

have roots that dig into the earth

deep down into it to stay

where they are

and grow wider and taller.

A tree is supposed to

tickle the sky. A

tree is supposed to know

how it feels for the

wispy dense net of

fog to crawl and drape on it.

A tree is supposed to grow up

and settle down.

A tree is confident and vulnerable.

A tree houses many. A tree feeds a forest.

A tree is who I am until I die.

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