Your Story:The Tree

· by · in Nature, Story Time. ·

It’s time again for you to write the caption.  In the Your Story series, I ask each of you to write a story, a poem, your feelings or even just one word for one of my pictures.  You all do such a wonderful job and I enjoy reading each comment.  You never cease to surprise me with your wonderful stories.

Put your writing cap on, find your best pen and start writing.

To purchase a Seth Snap product, please visit the Seth Snap store.  To see more of my work, please visit my galleries.

Past Your Story blog posts:

Your Story
Your Story:Blue
Your Story: Country
Your Story: Blue Bank
Your Story: The View
Your Story: Forgotten
Your Story: Night and Day

102 responses to “Your Story:The Tree”

  1. it was my home, yes it had comfort and welcome doorway..never was it locked or guarded, any time of day. Those who visited me were friends of yesterday , and hoping to be friendly in every way. I too, kept stacks of honey and corn for entertaining my guest..wearing fur with horns 🙂

  3. When the wizard turned the moaning woman into a tree, her screaming complaints were suddenly frozen. That was 100 years ago, but you can still see where her mouth used to be….

  4. It watched over the house for decades. A strong, beautiful reminder of the generations before who walked by that very tree whilst working in the fields. It grew larger year in and year out – a constant reminder of humility, beauty, and simplicity.

  5. She stopped and stared at that tree. Remembered it from her youth. She was a tomboy and had climbed it many a time. She longed to do so now. She smiled to herself as she walked up to it. Braced her hands in the crook of it and lifted herself up. She straddled either side of it. Let her feet dangle. She felt 12 years old again. 12 years old, innocent, happy, and fearless.

  6. I watched you
    The boy and the girl
    As I had watched you before you were born
    I had seen you so many times
    In so many generations
    So many lives that you felt so important.
    But to me you were the same boy and girl
    Decades apart, centuries past
    But the same
    Except you ‘boy’ now wield the axe
    And I am the old man!

  13. The tree comes from the roots of life ,
    arises from the groud , it gives us
    the air to breathe and provide and nourish us with the sweet
    nectares of the Gods from whom it was created…a true gift indeed!

  14. Kristine had taken off her wedding ring and put in the hollow of an oak tree growing in a neighbor’s pasture. At the time she had been pissed at her husband Michael for not helping her more with the raising of their three children, who that day had been especial hellions. Michael had not even noticed the missing ring for several months, by which time Kristine had just come to acknowledge that this was the way things were and had begun to make her peace with it – at least until the children were raised. That is, she couldn’t go it alone. So that when Michael had finally noticed one morning, Kristin just said that she had taken it off while potting some plants. So now she had to retrieve it. Problem was, in the meanwhile the neighbor had penned a large bull in that very pasture, purchased for breeding, with a big red signs on the fence all around that said, “DANGER: THIS BULL IS MEAN!”

  16. Home is in the distance
    but I stand
    behind the tree
    scared to come out
    and show myself
    to you, to your life
    and become who you want
    me to be.
    I’m not ready yet, my love,
    and so I hide away
    loving you
    from the forest
    until the day I’m grown
    and can walk
    to you
    as man, as husband
    as the father that will be.

  17. We all have holes in us, just like the tree that stood before me.

    An empty spot where something once was. Was that something freely given in an act of compassion? Was it torn away by one promising a love which they had no intention of providing? Was it borrowed by one who bore no intention of returning it? Was it taken quietly from within and weakened until it simply fell away?

    I do not ask the tree, for I know the many things that can leave holes. I simply stand before it, commiserate the losses we’ve both suffered and take solace that it and I can still find the strength to stand.

  21. When I am old, I will abandon conventional living, find a recession free home, a place to call my own beneath a tree.. I will gather moss for a pillow, hay for my bed and befriend squirrels, birds, bees and all animals who will share nuts, seeds and honey and I will spend my days roaming the countryside, foraging for berries and edible plants, drink fresh water from mountain streams. I will be free living beneath the tree.

  22. ~ Tree ~ (A Personification)

    I am disrobed; my essence bare
    Nipped by crisp Ocktober air
    Layers once green of vibrant hues
    Scattered with the North Wind blues

    Though I stand here stately; tall
    Subject to Mother Natures call
    She whose womb in fertile deep
    My roots,my height did slowly creep
    With limbs reaching towards heaven, sky
    And a haven for creatures that scurry, fly

    Why that I be thus exposed
    Through-out Winters bleakness, woes
    I am disrobed, my essence bare
    Nipped by crisp Ocktober air!

    O’Prunty

  23. She had not spoken since she was a stripling – when, being so joyous in her planting, she had whistled shrill, so that human heads turned and dogs barked.
    Yesterday, they had come again, the men in white, this time with a tin of red and a rough brush, which tickled at her acute sensibilities.
    She had been chosen, sought, singled out – but not in a good way.
    Trees are canny, they read the sky and hold the ground. Her time had come.
    Something opened within her; and she began to scream…

  25. You think you know me, by the leaves I’ve dropped. You call me by a name as if “human” were yours. Come, closer and listen. My breath flows, confiding secrets and a wish. See as I’ve seen, attentive without agenda. Listen as I’ve listened, still and receptive. Sit with me a while, and tell my story.

  26. The thing Tree disliked most about sentience was feeling the scars, like the one under its one and only arm. It made poor Tree scream in anguish.

  31. a home for some
    shade for many
    once voice in the Chorus of Breezes
    eventually becoming firewood
    or cabinets
    or legs for the table
    of a family of eight

  32. The rings of age
    just like on stage
    Calm and quite
    you are so wilde
    The natures face
    always the right place

    PS my first poem/rhyme ever… my friend laughed much 🙂

  33. It was time to go home. Through the autumnal fields she moved, the sun muted by clouds. Her body through a weak shadow on the trampled grass and mud at the edge of the field. She looked at the horizon. The colours of the fields clashed; purple and orange and green. Did she have to go home, really? Would anyone notice her absence from the lone clapboard house tucked in to the wooded curve of a quiet road? Her dog had run away the week before. The crowd of plates and cutlery on the wooden sideboard looked at her disapprovingly each evening when she failed to search the darkness for her erstwhile best friend. Tonight was different. She had pulled on her creased leather boots as soon as she had put down her work bag. She was surprised how much pleasure she had found in the welcome sinking feeling of the mud on her boots. But the light was poor, and fading now. She didn’t want to go home again, but where could she go? She gazed at the forked branches of a field-tree, pondering the answer.

  34. Here’s what I could think of:
    The branches were empty in late autumn just as I was inside. Will I be able to find something meaningful to fill the void inside? I am not as patient as this tree, which can wait until spring to bloom. I want to see the fruits of my hard work now.

  35. Remember the frozen moonlight
    when the snowflakes drifted
    not nearly as fast
    as your tears running warmly
    down my ice-hardened
    battle-scarred flesh.

    I drank your liquid sorrows
    as you clung to my boughs.
    I shivered with your mist-laden
    sobbing exhales.

    How I ached to hold you,
    so tenderly.
    whisper you were safe
    in this quiet space
    that I love you.

    But I couldn’t.
    I didn’t flinch, or bend.
    In desperation, my branches snapped to the sky angrily.

    and I swore to napping Mother Earth
    I pleaded with senile Father Time
    and I begged the ignorant stinking Groundhog
    as my icicles dripped, sobbing coldly.

    Turn back the Clock
    Un-wind Time
    to a happier past
    of greener days.

    Open his eyes to miracles
    (Press) pause
    Be his shadow of Conscience
    and this time

    Do not nominate me as a
    memory monument of misery
    for the rest of my existence.

    Hide his car keys.

    • Beautiful! My favorite part: “and I swore to napping Mother Earth
      I pleaded with senile Father Time
      and I begged the ignorant stinking Groundhog
      as my icicles dripped, sobbing coldly.”

  36. Reblogged this on C.L. Bolin Books & Art and commented:
    and just when I thought writer’s block was just a square of wood decorated with chickenscratch scribbles… LOL… Seth appears… you inspired me to toss my block in the river, sir- thank you.

  37. Pingback: The tree | miguel.id.au·

  38. She sat next to the tree to feel it’s warmth for the last time. She is waiting for her new foster parents. A new family to spend her life with. Though the tree can’t move she could feel the friendship she has with it. Though she can talk, the tree could feel her love. The love of a dog who is now destined to live with another family. But even though her life will be better now, her old house and the tree will always be her home..

  39. It was near a tree like this, he said. On that fateful day, when a man with strong beliefs met an angel with none at all. I will tell you what he told me. The day when the life of Thatcher Hemsley regained its colour.
    It was a nice day. But not for the young man with blue eyes and brown-red hair. It had been an awful day. He went to his mother’s house for a family gathering he attended only because it was expected of him. His family was noisy as always. They picked on him because he was different. He believed, while they didn’t. He succeeded when they failed. They are stuck while he moved on. He was open, and they were closed tight. His family hated him. They were jealous. But he still loved them, only God knows why. His visits to his family never ends well. Especially for him.
    The man, needing some fresh air went for a walk. It was quite nice, at least it was quiet. After an hour or so, there was a tree, and he decided to rest for a while. He felt tired and nodded off, his back resting on the tree.
    He opened his eyes abruptly and looked around, wondering how long he was out. He spotted a man, older than him, not so far from his place. The man was walking to him and for some reason he stood up and walked to said man. They both stopped, one meter of dense air between them. That man, he had green eyes and pitch-black hair. They stared at each other, not saying a word, but seeming to understand everything unsaid.
    The man smiled a warm smile, something rarely directed at Thatcher himself, and everything about him screamed nice, trusting, okay to be trusted, colourful. He was at awe at this man, this being that seemed to look right into his soul. The man reached out and took both of Thatcher’s hands into his and said, “I am Asmodel, the angel of patience. I came to Earth to look for my soul-mate that apparently is human.” He stared wide eyed but managed to stutter, “Uh, my name is Thatcher Hemsley.. Umm…” Any sane person would think that this man was crazy, calling himself an angel. But he felt, knew, that he wasn’t lying. That as crazy as it sounds, that man -no, angel- was telling the truth.
    “Wh-why is a…” Seconds passed, and figuring the sentence wasn’t going to be completed the angel said, “As I said, I am here to look for my soul-mate that is human. And you are that person.” That certainly killed some of his braincells. Him, the soul-mate of an angel. That’s some news. He took a long time to process this information. But when he did, quite a long time later, his world was never the same again.

    Did I mention that the story has a hint (or actually some) slash? Yes, Thatch and the angel (he’s Gav by the way) are in a relationship. A romantic one. If that offends anybody I am TRULY sorry. But I believe that God doesn’t care about gender. Or sexuality. Oh God, when did this turn… Ugh.. Anyway, Sethsnap, if this offends you in anyway, just tell me, after all I can’t please everyone.. ^__^’a
    So, now that the dark secret is out, I just want to say that I am the type of person who bullies the one I love/like the most. I’ve never had any real crushes, so this implies mostly to families and friends, and my favorite characters. Yes, I torture my poor characters. But I love them a lot, that’s why I do it. Talk about twisted love… 😛 Sorry for any errors or offending content. Thanks. 🙂

  40. He had a pretty sister once,
    cheerfully facing north–she wore tufts of lavendar at her feet.

    Each day, they embraced,
    limbs nimble from season to season–until an early winter arose
    with a sneaky killing sleet.

    He watched his dear sister wither and die,
    all the while refusing to let her go…

    even as a kind farmer’s axe blade came to save his life.

    ______
    Thanks for this image, Seth 🙂 Terrific inspiration!

  42. Trees were a part of life. Each leaf was handled with a touch worthy of a newborn babe; each moment was alive with the love of the forest. In loving memory of Mr. Tree, my Opapa. Dec 1929-Nov 2012

  43. Pingback: Your Story:Morning | sethsnap·

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