Planting Trees

Cuyahoga Valley National Park; The Outlook

Running through side streets and across the town plaza behind the high school, there's a certain tree I nearly pass that reminds me of where I am, an "ah-ha" moment that gives me pause and makes me turn my body to the right, reach, and fondle a leaf between my fingertips.  I know the mountain on which my house is perched, the earth beneath my feet announces it no matter how distracted I am by the woods, the sky, or the howling of wolves, not far off. I know it, even though two nights ago when I approached the ascending ground, it was covered in rough foliage I could not pass.  Sure, I see the significance here, I know I haven't been caring for this space as I should, but there's a part of me that says - let's not clear the ground. I say, let the forest grow. Shield the house. At least I still know it's there. I do not need to see it, and I may forget the shape, the color, or size, but I'll know it exists.  No one else needs to.  If, by some chance, they see a glimpse and consider climbing, they may or may not be deterred by the overgrowth.  Of course, there is also the possibility that someone will realize in simple passing that with a mountain such as this, there must be something at the peak.  They too may climb.  Perhaps this is the significance of my recurrent meeting of rock-climbers.  I do love a man who at least acknowledges he climbs just because he can, because he wants to, for the climb.  Maybe those men will turn away when they find the house.  I would be relieved to know that, at least.  But, there's safety in these thorns.

Reverie is an island.  Not quite in the center of this island, farther to the West, there is a mountain.  On top of the mountain, there is a house.  There are several floors, walls, ceilings.  On the top floor, there is a bed in which I could sleep.  It's unmade, and boxes still fill the room.  I'll sort through it all one day.  If you move to where you'd think there should be a closet, to the right of the bed, you will find glass doors.  Behind glass doors, there is a patio with potted plants and furniture that needs a proper washing.  The chairs are stacked and gritty.  An outdoor area rug might make the concrete more inviting.  There are a couple cracks, but I don't want to look and see how deep the damage goes, not right now.  There are more stairs, to a raised picnic area.  There is no umbrella.  No one has sat at the picnic table.  When first I saw this patio and the sky above, it was storming.  The second time, I stepped out of behind the doors and I stood in a gentle rain.  One day, I will sit alone on this roof and I will gaze across the horizon.  If only I can make my feet move.  I might even patch some cracks.  For now, it's easier to walk the forests below and glance up now and then to be sure the house is hidden from view. 
What's that there?  A corner of the empty/full house, on the mountain, on the island?
I suppose I should plant another tree.