trees [Theme]

There are beautiful trees that retain their foliage until frost. And after frosts until snowstorms they are green. They are wonderful. So there are people who have endured everything in the world, and yet they themselves become better and better until their death.

When the morning so tenderly and touchingly kisses the sky, when the trees stretch their graceful hands to the clouds, glorifying a new bright day, when the soul dreams of something distant and beautiful, then a miracle is born, quiet and kind, then a magical winter fairy tale comes to the doorstep ...

- Well, you said it! - Zimobor did not get angry, but laughed, as if he had heard utter stupidity. -Have you seen the sun? Have you noticed that winter and summer alternate, that people are born and die, like grass and trees, like the stars themselves? And if you have seen all this, how can you say that there are no gods? Doesn't this mean denying the obvious?

They dance the stocky hopak.

... And the snow kept falling, falling like light butterflies on the eyelashes, sitting down on an abandoned old woman’s bench, not letting her get bored, carefully covering the houses, trees, and earth with its embrace. And even the sky seemed to be made of soft cotton wool. This snowy silence made my ears ring, and my thoughts slowly swirled in flakes in a white waltz. And such aching happiness blurred in my chest, when it was both good and at the same time a little sad. It was snowing...

Everyone who lives with us on earth. They suffer without words, which is even worse.

If for a hundred years, raise children.

Autumn came abruptly this year. For one day. Overnight. Like an impressionist artist, she created a masterpiece with her palette knife in a few hours, applying bright strokes to the trees and grass. I painted stars of asters and late dahlias. She painted armfuls of fragrant, bitterly sad chrysanthemums with bright strokes. I drew the smells of cool freshness. She covered her entire masterpiece with a veil of fog... She made it home...

My father built his own theater, as well as cinema, all his life - his own, unlike any other. For 46 years at Lenkom, he created his own Cherry Orchard and grew unprecedented trees in this garden. He raised truly great artists, and more than one generation. It seems that no one succeeded, not even the great Tovstonogov. As a passionate person, my father never ceased to be amazed at how the whole world arises from nothing - just from an idea, from a fantasy, which suddenly materializes and becomes something that can be touched, that becomes material. Although the theater, of course, is not very material.

Trees grow in the neighborhood, creating a shadow for someone, protecting a place under the sun, turning someone into a stump.

Kasyanich's daughter lives in the city. We spent the night with her. Just in a new house has an apartment. High up on the ninth floor. I went out onto the balcony, looked, and all around, melancholy, melancholy, some houses stand in a gray square, and the yard is like a prison in transit. And the trees in that yard are small, sickly. It is immediately clear that they lack light and air. One word - prisoners.

- And then. Then they sort of diverge. They grow openly, and keep away from the trunks, bend. If they absolutely dislike each other, then one blooms, grows stronger, and the other withers, ends. They argue about who is stronger, and one will take all the juice from the earth for himself, while the other will not get it. This is how you walk, it used to be, through the taiga, and the trees are poor for you, crying at their fate, just like people.

The trees are finally covered with flower foam, the soul is blooming with joy. Good this spring...

The barefoot girl of Chile carries through the centuries.