Considering that trees have excellent memories and that most are good storytellers — although the cypress can go on; and the sequoia, full of its own notoriety, can exasperate; and despite its more humble appearance (or because of it) the elm has been known to embellish to the point of incredulity — still, one tree I’d like to hear from is that ancient one, an oak by tradition, on the Plains of Mamre.

But not having access to the original, I’ve sought the counsel of a local oak, a Garry, leaning out on the north side of Beacon Hill Park. Oaks, as we know, are meticulous record keepers. So I asked what talk there’d been concerning that millennia-wizened relative.

It replied, as oaks do, nodding its canopy, rustling its branches with much affectation, twiggy tips stroking furrows of trunk, frowning as it scanned its inner rings, collecting details as though they weren’t immediately at its disposal.

Then, momentously clearing its throat of chips, splinters, and the odd beetle, it began: “Once upon a time (an opening, by the way, that is original with trees and a strict proof of a story’s veracity), under the dogged sun of a baked eastern plain, three angels of God appeared through the heat waves and approached Sarah and Abraham, who at the time were camped beneath an oak of Mamre.

“As the angels drew close, the oak began to tremble, from the deepest threads of its roots on up through the rising sap, the bark softening, almost splitting, new buds out of season broke forth like notes of song, while in its shade the angels reclined, cooled themselves.

“Abraham ran through the camp, casting orders, fetching water, veal, meal cakes, and curds. Then settled down to negotiate. Sarah watched, amused but inspired.

“Enlivened by the transformation of the oak, and the presence of the Three, Sarah’s 90-year-old body grew young again; her laugh rose like a lithe oak, like a new mother, like a woman who refused to be erased.

“It’s thought the tree of Mamre is charcoal now, a casualty of failed diplomacy and stray brimstone. But among us trees, as among many women, it is known that the Oak of Mamre survives, like a holy covenant: green shoots and scions springing up in places of need, throughout our wounded world.”

pins you with her eyes, “Put down your book,” she says, “high time
to read between the lines of your tangled life,
that’s where the clarity is, Honey.”

“Back then,” she says, “before you were given your script to memorize,
and hustled out the double doors to follow the stipulated dream,
you used big ingenious slashes of crayon, drew, bold, ego-less, cerise clouds,
for a sky you’d seen in the world you forgot after you were born.”

But it’s fear and loneliness and getting old you want to talk about,
but can’t find words to begin.

“Listen,” she says, “to the craving of a kestrel, watch the lightning
turns of dragonflies, the grey squirrel rappelling down a willow, see the dying
elm gilded in crimson, purple loosestrife gracing the pitted parking lot,
have you forgotten the perfume of fir trees? or play some Mitchell
or Morrison, anything to clear the bog from your mind.”

“But some regrets I can’t forget,” you say, “some ache I just can’t take.”

“Look,” she says, “all goes onward and outward,
the sunrise blazes, the sunset baptizes, and between
is mayhem and bliss, and the world you forgot is this world,
and this world of beauty and sorrow is midwife to the next,
and the next won’t be like anything anyone ever supposed.

“So get on with it, Gorgeous, gather up those tangled lines,
roll them up like wool,
spin them into something like gold.”