Have We Seen A Tree

Have we seen a tree?
The word is not the thing, so do we see without the word?
Do we see with all our senses?
Have we touched a tree? Smelt it? Tasted it? Climbed it? Sat under it?
Have we seen it in the rain? Heard the sound of rain on its leaves?
Have we seen it at the break of dawn? Heard the first birds that wake on its branches?
Have we seen it in the changing light of day? Against the sunset? Against dark clouds?
At night? When the moon is full? In the dark night? In the flash of lightning?

Have we seen it when the leaves fall? When the new leaves come?
When it swings in the storm? When a breeze stirs in its leaves?
When a squirrel runs a loop on its trunk?
When from upon a branch an owl hoots to a distant hoot?

Have we seen its shadows changing with the day? And with the seasons?
Its shadows by moonlight?
Do we know what its roots feel drawing up the sap?
Its leaves, in the first rain after summer?

Can we flower to spring like a tree?
And drop our leaves to autumn?
Can we stand and perish like a tree?
Have we heard the woodpecker on a dead tree?
Seen the termites running it to earth?
Have we lost ourselves in a tree?
Have we become a tree?

The word tree is not the tree.

I do not know for sure who has penned this. But it seems to be Krishnamurthi's work. 


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