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1962;
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Oluwatosin Leramo Digital marketer @ Adekunle Ajasin
In Arts and Crafts 3 min read
A Year in the Life of a Tree 🌲
<p style="text-align: center; "><strong><sub>A Year in the Life of a Tree </sub></strong>🌲&nbsp;</p><p><br></p><p>Tree Name: The Old Oak by Miller’s Field</p><p>Location: Rural countryside, edge of a small farm</p><p><br></p><p>🌱 <strong>Spring – Awakening</strong></p><p><br></p><p>As the frost retreats and the days grow longer, the old oak begins to stir. Tiny buds appear along its gray-brown limbs, each one a silent promise. Beneath the bark, sap begins to rise, like blood waking from sleep.</p><p><br></p><p>Robins return, flitting among its branches. A pair builds a nest in a crook high above. Bees hum softly around the opening blossoms at the base, pollinating dandelions and early flowers that sprout nearby.</p><p><br></p><p>The tree has seen 100 springs. It knows the rhythm. It waits.</p><p><br></p><p>☀️<strong> Summer – Shelter and Growth</strong></p><p><br></p><p>By June, the oak is in full crown — a towering canopy of deep green. Its leaves absorb sunlight, creating sugars that feed its massive body. Its roots dig deep, drinking water that lies meters beneath the soil.</p><p><br></p><p>A squirrel scurries along its branches. Children from the nearby farm climb its limbs, laughing and dangling their legs from its arms like it’s always been theirs.</p><p><br></p><p>Birdsong, buzzing, wind, and sun — the old oak is a living world in itself.</p><p><br></p><p><strong>🍂 Autumn – Letting Go</strong></p><p><br></p><p>Come October, a chill rides the wind. The tree’s leaves shift — deep reds, golden browns, burnt orange. It begins the slow work of shutting down, withdrawing energy from each leaf.</p><p><br></p><p>One by one, the leaves let go. They drift to the earth and form a soft blanket below, nourishing the soil that nourished them.</p><p><br></p><p>Squirrels bury acorns in its shadow. The tree knows only a few will survive — but that’s enough.</p><p><br></p><p>❄️<strong> Winter – Stillness and Memory</strong></p><p><br></p><p>Now bare, the oak stands exposed against a pale sky. Its branches stretch like bones into the cold air. Snow clings to its bark. No birds sing. No bees buzz. But the tree is not dead — it’s waiting.</p><p><br></p><p>Under the frost-covered ground, roots still stretch and grow slowly, quietly. Deep inside, its memory holds every storm, every summer breeze, every child’s voice, every fallen leaf.</p><p><br></p><p>It dreams in wood grain and sap. A year has passed, as they always do. And soon, it will begin again.</p><p><strong><br></strong></p><p><strong>🌳 Closing Thought</strong></p><p><br></p><p>One tree, one year — yet it carries the wisdom of centuries. In a fast-moving world, the old oak teaches us that life isn’t about speed. It’s about staying rooted, adapting with the sea</p><p>sons, and always, always growing — even in stillness.</p><p><br></p>

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