23/07/2025
I sat with my morning coffee,
outside, beside our old tree.
I saw new green branches
reaching from a weathered limb,
and it struck me —
how strong this tree must be.
Planted by a farmer
who lived here long before us,
around 1955,
rooted close to the house.
Years ago,
we cut some branches back —
they shadowed our kitchen window,
darkened the rooms inside.
Still, the tree remembers how to grow.
Now new limbs stretch skyward,
reclaiming the light.
This spring,
May was gentle and kind —
warm days, soft nights,
the tree dressed itself in a crown of green.
Then June arrived —
cold winds, harsh storms —
a blow that stripped it bare.
Leaves scattered like small prayers,
some clung on but browned at the tips.
July brought warmth again,
rare warmth for Iceland,
and the tree answered with new life.
Yet the wounds of June remain —
dead branches, bruised leaves,
few flowers,
which means few berries
for the birds come fall.
But next year it will return —
stronger, fuller —
these tender branches
will grow thick and tall.
And as I sat,
it dawned on me:
this tree is a metaphor
for the people of Palestine —
so long on the receiving end
of force meant to erase them,
so many lives cut down,
so much broken.
But people are nature —
we bend, we break,
and yet we grow back.
Always there are new shoots,
new generations,
rising, reaching,
no matter the storm.
The Palestinians, too,
will bloom again.
This thought planted
a seed of hope in me —
for them,
for all of us.
So I offer it to you —
may it root in your heart too,
a small green promise
that no matter what they do to us,
we are nature,
and nature always returns.
God knows,
we need that hope now —
more than ever.
