The Balsam is the most enchanting of all trees - tall and elegant; the tree of the savior; humble and self sacrificing. Within her veins, under her tough thick skin, runs a powerful healing resin - thick dark earthy pulsating globs of magic blood. The men of the forest climb her trunk with bundled twigs of fire and set her skin ablaze just until it has turned a dark toasty black. She’s left to self cure. Her thick healing resin begins to seep-ooze-puss. A moon cycle passes and the men return to place absorbent cloths at the base of her seepage. They will want it to apply to their burns, their children’s skinned knees, their wives sore throats. They will leave the cloths. Another moon cycle passes. They gather them up to boil in a big pot, lift them from the water with balsam branches, press-twist-squish them until at last the thick gooey resin surrenders and lets go of the cotton fibers of the cloths. With their knives the men will cut the burnt remedy soaked scabs off the trees, grind them up, poor hot water over them and press twist squeeze them until the resin is forced to surrender from the tiny scab pieces and falls to a metal bin to be separated from the water, weighed, sold, and exported to humans all over the world to slather on their bodies, aches, hair, to dab on their necks, to burn in wooden boxes or metal pans while praying to gods.
And the tree grows still. Lumps form lapping over, self healing, endurance, providing shade for coffee growing below and streams of water. Her seeds fall and they are collected and cracked open, eaten for a sore tummy, but the majority are left hidden beneath the dried leaves of the forest floor - a small seed with a thin skin, tail for flying.
