Welcome! Today’s episode is about enoughness — not as resignation, but as clarity.
We live in a culture that keeps asking us to want more: more certainty, more power, more identity, more proof that our lives matter.
But this poem begins somewhere else. It begins with trees. And with laughter. And with the quiet decision not to argue with the world’s hunger.
I want to read this poem slowly, the way it was written — as an act of noticing rather than persuasion.
Now, let us begin.
Poem Reading
The trees know something.
I walk among them
and do not feel instructed—
only reminded.I believe the world is not a punishment. I have seen enough to know this.
In summer, a friend and I sit on the porch— food still warm, music leaning into the evening. We laugh. We forgive ourselves for being human. For a while, the world fits exactly there.
Later, I walk. The trees stand without appetite. They do not compare themselves. They rise from the same ground and make room for difference.
The flowers do not compete with the leaves. Color is not theft. It is generosity.
Sometimes I rest my hand against the bark and feel the boundary thin. As if the tree and I are keeping the same flesh.
Sometimes the wind carries my father’s voice— not words, but tone. That familiar instruction: pay attention.
Birds arrive at the window. They do not ask permission. They sing anyway.
Each morning I wake and feel the quiet astonishment of having arrived again. Not Christmas— but something just as rare.
In winter, soup teaches me gratitude. In spring, I am accompanied.
My siblings, Distance does not diminish us. Laughter finds a way to exceed rooms.
That world is enough for me.
I do meet those who believe power is weight— that to be large someone else must shrink.
I know better. I do not fight. I keep walking.
I have no interest in harm. I simply choose what I will carry.
What I see— again and again— is goodness practicing itself.
The trees agree.
This poem isn’t trying to convince us the world is good. That would be dishonest. Instead, it says something quieter and braver:
I have seen enough to know this. Enough joy. Enough grief. Enough laughter shared on a porch to recognize what matters.
The trees in this poem are not symbols of escape. They are models of restraint. They don’t take. They don’t compete. They don’t perform virtue. They simply stand and make room.
That line — “Color is not theft.”— might be the moral center of the poem.
It’s a refusal of scarcity thinking. A refusal of the idea that for one thing to shine, another must dim. And then there’s power.
The poem doesn’t rage against power. It doesn’t argue with it. It simply steps aside. I know better. I do not fight.
I keep walking. That’s not passivity. That’s discernment. There’s a difference.
This poem is also about inheritance — not wealth or ideology, but attention. The father’s voice doesn’t offer advice. It offers tone. Pay attention.
Which is maybe the most ethical instruction we ever receive. The poem ends where it began — with trees agreeing.
Not because they’re wise in a mystical way, but because they’ve practiced patience longer than we have. They don’t shout. They don’t explain. They just remain.
I don’t think this poem is saying the world is simple.
It’s saying something harder: That goodness is not loud, and it doesn’t require dominance to exist. That joy between two people can be a complete philosophy. That soup in winter and companionship in spring might be enough instruction for a lifetime.
If this poem leaves you feeling quieter, that’s intentional. Not emptied — but steadied.
This podcast is a quiet space for reflection on beauty, belief, selfhood, love, grief, and meaning —spoken without answers, gurus, or performance. Each episode begins with a poem, story, or an essay and lingers there, asking not what we should think, but what we’re willing to notice.
If this kind of listening feels rare — or necessary — you’re invited to subscribe.
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The title of this poem is, “The trees are wise”. Written by John Akhilomen. The poems and reflections shared here may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form without prior written permission, except for brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly discussion. In this podcast, we explore attention over explanation, humility instead of declaration, and trust that the natural world carries the argument.
Thank you for listening. Until next time, keep walking.
