I am 237 years old today,
the oldest tree in this forest.
I am a living measurement of time,
a history book in its most natural form.
Wizened by decades of observation,
witness to catastrophes and wonders you will never know,
but there is one tragedy I will tell you.
One of every twelve trees in Vermont are ash trees like me
and their wails in the wind
warn of imminent death
in the form of an emerald beetle.
Their larvae grow under our bark, feed on our flesh,
blocking our transportation of water and nutrients
until our skin becomes brittle and splits,
our crowns of foliage fall and we die of thirst and starvation,
These invasive aliens won’t stop until we’ve all collapsed,
returning to the earth we once rose from.
You may be thinking, “It's just trees,
why should we care?”
Our lives are more entwined than you realize.
We take your exhales and turn them into inhales.
We help make your Green Mountains green.
If your ancestors had not used our wood to make paper,
what would you know of the past?
If they had no wood to make shelters, to start fires for warmth,
to cook food, perhaps you would have never existed.
All we ask for in return is for you to not be indifferent.
For as fast as the emerald ash borer spreads, let these words spread faster.
Don’t let my story die with me.
Because if I fall in the forest and no one is there to hear me, I will not make a sound.
