Dear Ida B--If bones could die in battle.

Dear Ida B,

There is a valley of bones on Second Rock Mountain in the Desert of Arabia, close to the Frankincense tree. These bones were once men, and they lay there, covered with the dusty memories of centuries. The wind blows over them, polishing them with sand, and the sun shines down until they glisten like ivory. These bones are dry indeed.

Dear Birch--Rocks can't change the river.

Dear Birch,

I need you and cannot wait to speak in person. I visited the Joshua Tree. I traveled the distance across the ocean and wandered through the land, listening to the wind to guide me. When I arrived, I sat against his trunk as the sun and moon circled through the heavens. They shone down upon us as the days passed, and I felt Joshua's tears behind me. I traveled to see his friend. And then I walked away.

I wandered aimlessly over the hills for days until I came to a river. It was wide and rocks lined the bank, so I picked up a rock and skipped it into the flowing water. It bounced once before sinking through the current. I tried again, hoping this one would go farther, but it did not. Every rock I skipped fell short of my goal and landed like so many mountains upon my already heavy heart.

“Maybe if I skip heavier rocks,” I thought to myself.

Dear Joshua--My thoughts on death.

Dear Joshua,

This letter is random, but I love you.

Dear Birch--There is a spring and a tree.

Dear Birch,

There is a land of hills north of my Mid Equinox Desert. These hills were formed when the waters melted and covered the face of the earth. Water sat over them, and the wind stirred these waters until hills rose up from the volcanic ash like sand on the sea shore. Deer wander these hills, and coyotes, and the hawks fly above them.

Dear Birch--The wind blows where it wishes.

Dear Birch,

No, you are not being punished, and there is nothing wrong with you. It’s true. We were made to wander the earth, but our roots are cursed to remain stationary. We can only move up—and down.

Dear Fir--Am I being punished?

Dear Fir,

Sometimes I wonder if I was made for more. No, that’s not right, I know I was made for more, but I don’t know what else to do. I was made to wander the face of the earth, but my roots remain in the ground. I feel the rocks there, holding me back, and I know I will never be able to move through the soil like the fish swim in the sea.

Dear Birch--When you sink through the sea.

Dear Birch,

It's a funny thing about swimming. I stand here and watch the river flow out to the sea and think about the depths there. I think about the treasures buried in the deep, and the ships drifting on the surface. Humans drift along the tops of the water and never see below. If they were still, they would see so much.

Dearest Frankincense--Does it hurt?

Does it hurt when they come? Does it hurt when they take your sap away and turn it into perfume?

They call it tears, but only you can tell me why you cry. Do you cry from the heat of the desert? Do you cry from the lack of rain? Do you cry because of the pain of the rocks around your roots?

Dear Birch--The despair returns.

Thanks for the note. The days are so long. The sun beats down in this desert sand. The heat is eternal. I feel as though I'm fighting a losing battle and often wonder what's the point?

Dear Fir--A question for wisdom.

I trust you are still in good health. In your last letter you mentioned the study of human interaction and the place of a tree in the world. I must say I was greatly intrigued. I have often puzzled over the human-tree interaction and have yet to reach a conclusion. Perhaps you could shed some light on the subject.

Dear Joshua--A gift for the desert tree.

Dear Joshua,

I often imagine you in the desert and wonder. I often imagine the heat and the sand. I often imagine the space.

Dear Elm--When spring comes.

Dear Elm,

The weather is lovely here. It always is in these mountains. The snowdrops have come and gone, and the crocuses are sprouting. I watch them pushing their leaves through the ground and marvel at their strength. How can something so small have such power? Even the old dead sticks and leaves do not stand a chance. The crocuses pierce anything that covers them. They slice through the leaves and reach for the sunlight.

Dear Hemlock--A request

Dear Hemlock,

It was so nice to hear from you. Yes, I am doing well. The rivers are flowing again and I can hear them. They babble in the distance and I can almost feel the streams washing over my roots.

Dear Maple Leaf-- Remember who loves you.

Dearest Maple Leaf,

Remember dear, remember. Do not forget when the world turns dark and you are grounded. Do not forget when the animals batter you into the earth. Do not forget when the cold wind lifts you to the sky. Do not lose hope when all around is dark. When the world darkens and you drift in the outer space of your own despair, do not lose hope.