To return to my own trees, I went among them often, acknowledging their presence with a touch of my hand against their trunks.

Yes, I'd love to have a garden of my own--spacious, and full of everything that is fragrant and flowering. But if I don't succeed, never mind--I've still got the dream.

But the trees seemed to know me. They whispered among themselves and beckoned me nearer. And looking around, I noticed the other small trees and wild plants and grasses had sprung up under the protection of the trees we had placed there. The trees had multiplied! They were moving. In one small corner of the world, Grandfather's dream was coming true and the trees were moving again.

I mostly write short stories. They are best written in a continuous creative process. You have a feel of immediacy.

To early man, trees were objects of awe and wonder. The mystery of their growth, the movement of their leaves and branches, the way they seemed to die and come again to life in spring, the sudden growth of the plant from the seed - all these appeared to be miracles as indeed they still are, miracles of nature!

There are two kinds of authors - subjective and objective. Introverts are more inward looking.

Live long, my friend, be wise and strong. But do not from any man his song.