607 Quotes About Trees

Afterwards, I will have to tie the trees to bamboo poles so the wind will not determine their shape. A tree cannot be given form by the vagaries of the wind.

Trees are very often the home of Elemental beings which you would call nature spirits, intelligences of primeval age which enjoy drifting through your world and others in a more amorphous manner. Rocks, mountains, crystals, bodies of water – these too are homes of conscious beings.

I stroke the bleached bones of ancient trees felled long-ago by industry or cold desperation and wonder of another almost summer when two fell asleep beneath her arms, curling into each other like wind-swept branches on the edge of tomorrow ...

You've got nothing that lasts, you know. That's not the first town that ever stood there. There was one before that, and one before that, and one before that one, on back for 900 years. But this tree has stood here all along. What do you make of that, boy?

Here, she curled up in a tight ball and waited, purred to her unborn babies. And the trees, the tall and kindly trees, watched over her while she slept, slept the whole night through.

It was as if the sun had been stolen. Only thin ribbons of light seeped down through the green and milky air, air syrupy with the scent of pine, huckleberry, and juniper. From the rolling, emerald-carpeted earth, fingers of lacy ferns curled up, above which the massive fir and pine trees stood, pillar-like, to support an invisible sky. Hovering over everything was a silence as deep as the trees were tall.

To the imaginative, it is always something of an adventure to walk down a pleached alley. You enter boldly enough, but soon you find yourself wishing you had stayed outside — it is not air that you are breathing, but silence, the almost palpable silence of trees. And is the only exit that small round hole in the distance? Why, you will never be able to squeeze through that! You must turn back ... too late! The spacious portal by which you entered has in its turn shrunk to a small round hole.

Immediately as I ride the rush of wind chills my skin and twines it’s fingers into my chestnut hair, making the waves brush against my shoulders and fly behind me. Over the creekbed trees stretch and barely touch each other, as though passing a secret from one to the next. I strain my ears to hear their whispers through the leaves, but if they speak to me I don’t understand. But that’s okay, let them keep their secrets. I have my own.

Trees sound different at night, and they smell different too.