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A sugar maple greets spring near Lyndhurst Community Center.

"A Rock. A River. A Tree. " So begins Maya Angelou's masterful poem "On the Pulse of Morning," read at President Bill Clinton's inauguration in 1993. The poem has a tree with a voice as a central image. Angelou's work will live on; it touched and inspired millions.

If you have the gift of sight, look – really look – at any one of this spring's glorious trees. Their tight buds have unfurled into blossoms. Varied shades of green defy precise description. Fresh colors soothe the eye – and energize.

Maria Shine Stewart

Then go deeper. Don't just watch the tree; strive to listen to it.

As I looked out the window of a Lyndhurst restaurant, column incubating, my eyes feasted on green trees standing like sentries up and down Mayfield Road. I decided to name them; to me, trees do have identity, life force, even strength I could emulate. They depend on us at times -- but we need them, too.

So, not long ago a post on Facebook greatly troubled me – a picture of a gingko tree that had been, literally, snapped in two, broken right through its slender trunk. I called Marjorie Preston who had posted the picture.

Other trees in her area were similarly destroyed.

Preston and I spoke of respect for nature and shared hopes for the next generation. We discussed the importance of people of all ages, particularly the young, having outlets for energy or aggression. Of course we don't know the ages of those who broke the tree trunks. Yet, rings of experience help us to remember, at least some of the time, consequences of our actions.

"I would hope that those who did this would find something more constructive to do with their time," Preston she said as our conversation ended.

Agreed. Our power now affects the future. And this sad event evoked, for me, the past.

As a three-year-old, I often cried when a neighbor in my hometown of Cleveland Heights would arrive each night, typically in summer, swinging his baseball bat at the two slender sugar maples on my tree lawn. He would shout at me: "I'm going to cut your trees down."

I was too young to know that he couldn't really do that – not with the bat. It was as if he were swinging at someone I loved. I had a sense of connection with nature; this pre-teen (perhaps four times my age) either didn't possess the affinity – or had forgotten something he once had known. They were sugar maples.

Years later, when beloved elms were removed due to disease in the backyard, I felt bereaved. I was then about the age of the bully, and that was my first experience of incurable illness.

The grand old oak that survived, by contrast, lived a long life. When my mother died, she was buried in a cemetery not far from my childhood home. We saw that same oak during the funeral.To our shock, soon thereafter, it was taken down. And last summer, the house itself was demolished.

Memories linger. As a child, I knew the oak was already very old, and I imagined it being looked at by Native American children, too. That tree sheltered a place to energize, play, and dream. I was blessed with two things I wish every child could have – a swing and a sandbox.

Today, driving and walking the streets of Lyndhurst, I see young trees braced to give them that extra chance to survive. It is hard for me not to hear a voice: "It's hard to grow. My roots hurt sometimes. Some days, the ground tickles. I like sunshine. I drink rain."

If you are still reading, you may "get it" or not. Not yet. But you may someday experience a sense of unity with a growing thing that, seemingly, has no voice. Trees do speak...whisper...laugh...warn.

A sugar maple planted down the street from my childhood home still stands sturdily, I'm glad to say. When planted, it was as small as I was. "Look at that tree!" (my initial exclamation) became one of my mother's favorite sayings. She could feel wonder at my wonder.

Though love of nature can seem innate, like all loves, it must be encouraged. A tree is home to multiple communities ... insects, birds, squirrels ... Are we doing a good-enough job to teach our children to protect the earth? If we are creative and strive to be "constructive" – to use Preston's well-chosen word – we should not forget the permanence of an act of destruction. We might consider consequences for the next seven generations, as has been attributed to Native American wisdom.

Trees can outlive us in the interdependent web of life. If we let them.

P.S. Let me know what you love in Lyndhurst. Contact mariashinestewart@gmail.com