The mulberry tree to the south of our house is old, quite weathered, and misshapen. She’s lost branches in thunderstorms and high winds, but another June has come and again she bears fruit. Mosses and mushrooms grow on her trunk, there’s a family of woodpeckers who take refuge in a cavity halfway up.
Her berries emerge small and green at the first sign of spring. They swell to a light pink, red, then a violet-black, staining my fingers, dark purple on my feet or soles of my shoes as I walk the ground around her.
The mulberry tree feeds me as I pick, a low-hanging snack, shiny and black, a gentle tug or shake is all it takes, and the berries release at the stem.
She feeds our chickens, at the ground they peck for overripe berries, fallen, heavy with juice and seed.
She feeds our two dogs, one woody arm bent so low they barely have to look up, berries bitten right off the branch.
She feeds hungry coyotes, deer, and flies; she’s generous, she’s kind. She’ll feed all who come by.
She feeds the soil with fruit that’s not picked - a quiet thump as they tumble from down from the crown.
The mulberry tree gives, for how many more summers I’m not sure. But I thank her like it’s our last June together. She bears fruit, I give back - lightening her load, hugging her old trunk. I talk to her like the relative she is - I learned that from indigenous wisdom - and give her the respect she deserves.
The mulberry tree, beautiful in her imperfection. Not much to look at from afar, but come close and feel all the gifts she brings. Nature is funny like that, kind of unseen until you slow down, take a deep breath, and just start listening.
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