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orchard of unspoken things
Olive —
Healing and Reconciliation
Gnarled but generous,
the olive tree mends
what has been broken.
Its leaves whisper peace
not as a platitude,
but as a promise hard-earned.
To forgive is not to forget,
the tree seems to say—
but to feed even those
who once passed by
with clenched fists.
Willow —
Mourning Love That Could Not Speak Aloud
She bows but never breaks,
veil of green falling to cover
sorrow’s secrets.
Willow is the confidante of the unsaid—
the lovers who walked side by side
but never hand in hand.
She drinks the tears of generations,
and grows only more tender from them.
Under her, grief is given room
to breathe without explanation.
Oak —
Endurance, Ancestral Strength, and Chosen Lineage
The oak remembers.
Its rings hold the weight
of every season survived.
It stands not for power,
but for constancy—
a chosen family tree
that holds even untold names
in its vast, sheltering arms.
Birch —
New Beginnings, Tender Courage
White bark, like first snow—
soft, but startling.
Birch bends toward
the light with hope that still feels raw.
The tree of survivors
who chose softness over armor,
birch sings the hymn
of starting again, and again, and again.
Poplar —
Voiceless Stories, Whispered Resistance
Poplars shiver not with fear,
but with memory.
They grow fast, tall, r
eaching for silence broken by the wind.
Once used to mark
unmarked graves and boundary lines,
the poplar leans toward
justice that doesn't need permission.
Cedar —
Sanctuary, Protection, Ritual Legacy
Cedar is the scent of sacred spaces,
not built but remembered.
Its bark knows old songs—
of cleansing, of keeping,
of naming the sacred in the unseen.
To stand with cedar
is to stand inside something holy.
Not untouched, but touchstone.
Baobab — Rooted Memory, Communal Wisdom
The baobab swells with stories.
A tree turned library, womb, well.
Its branches reach
like ancestors trying to teach
not through instruction,
but through presence.
It does not rush.
It holds time like a lantern.
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