It looks like we’ll get a light rain here in Northfield, Minnesota. The botanical term that sparked today’s poem is “imbrication.” I was enchanted to learn that “imber” means “shower of rain” in Latin. (The word I had learned long ago was “pluvia.”)

I learned today that “imbrication” means overlapping “like tiles on a roof,” and when I sought to know which plants use this strategy to protect themselves the first example I was given was the arborvitae, a tree with which I am intimately familiar. In 1999, Tim and I planted eight of these lovely white cedars, just before Julia was born.

They have been thriving on the western edge of our garden for decades now. Little by little, they have woven themselves together to create a living green wall. When the winds are fierce or the burdens of snow are especially heavy, they bend, sometimes so much that we fear for them, but they are tough and flexible and adaptable. They do not break. Always they spring back and continue to push up toward the sky.

For these reasons, it makes sense to me that these “trees of life” are imbued by the Mdewakanton and Wahpekute Sioux, first inhabitants of what is now Rice County, Minnesota, with spiritual virtues, especially longevity and resilience. When I look at these eight trees now, I see exemplars. I see more clearly how we need to tend to our own deep-rooted lives not alone but together, however cultural and political winds beset us.

Wishing you a day of personal strength and community connection!