May 15, 2026

A Letter From The Last Tree

A Letter From The Last Tree — Blog Post Layout

Poetry

A Letter fromThe Last Tree

A long-form poem set before the Council of All Living Things, where every race that breathes, or once breathed, sent a witness.

By Veronica Bhat
At the Council of All Living Things, where every race that breathes, or once breathed, sent a witness, as the last letter was unfolded from the last ring of the last trunk.

The beetle came. The wolf came. The crow and the coral and the child.
The river sent its current. The mountains sent their echo.
Even the wind showed up, though it could not sit still.

And the last letter was read.

✦ The Last Tree — Speaking

I was here before you had a name for anything. I asked for nothing but soil, and rain, and time and in return I gave you breath you never counted, shade you never thanked, a home you never knew you were living inside. You walked beneath me every morning. You never looked up. Not once, not until there was nothing left above you. And now you have gathered here, in my absence, to finally, finally listen. So listen. I do not write this in anger. A tree does not know anger the way you do — we know drought, we know fire, we know the slow violence of being forgotten but not anger. I write this because someone must say it, and I am the last one left who can. You did not know what we were. You will now.

― The Silence ―

The silence after the last letter was read
carried the lightness and the heaviness alike,
of the moments that have passed
and for the moments to arrive.

The Wolf

In the silence after the last letter was read the wolf pressed its nose to the ground, searching for the smell of pine, of root, of rain-soaked bark — the smell of the forest it had been born inside, the smell of every ancestor it had ever had. "I ran beneath you for ten thousand years,"
it said, to no one. I taught my cubs to hunt by your shadows. I did not know I was teaching them a world that would not exist by the time they were old enough to mourn it.

The Sparrow

In the silence after the last letter was read the sparrow opened its beak but nothing came out. Not because it had nothing to say but because the song it wanted to sing was one it had learned in a branch that no longer existed. It closed its beak. It did not try again.

The Child

In the silence after the last letter was read the child looked at her hands — the same hands that had once pressed a palm to bark and felt, for the first time, something older than everything she had ever been taught. "I carved my name into one of you once,"
she whispered.
"I thought it meant I would last as long as you.
I did not understand which of us was supposed to be the lesson." She turned her hands over. She kept looking, as though the answer might still be there, written in the lines she was born with.

The River

In the silence after the last letter was read the river spoke in the only way rivers speak — by flowing, by slowing.

The Crow

In the silence after the last letter was read the crow, who had seen everything and trusted nothing, found, for the first time, that it could not be cynical about this. "I watched them cut the others down,"
it said, plainly.
"I watched from the branches,
then from the wires, then from the rooftops.
Each time, I thought — there are still more.
Each time, there were still more.
Until there weren't." "I should have said something. I should have said something every single time."

The Soil

In the silence after the last letter was read the soil, which had never spoken at a council before, spoke. "I held every root that ever existed,"
it said.
"I held the first tree and the last.
They walked on me their entire lives and called me dirt,
and I held them anyway —
the way the ground always holds the ones
who never think about the ground." "It is very quiet down here now. I keep waiting for something to take root. Nothing comes."
The silence after the last letter was read
disheartened the heart and left a wound somewhere deeper.
A ghost of a sound remains where joy once followed,
a hollow echo from the grim reaper.

Veronica (17) is a storyteller, someone who believes that emotions come more naturally to the human spirit than anything else in the world. An extrovert at heart, she’s always buzzing with energy; energy that she loves channelling into creating compelling characters, building worlds, and weaving stories that resonate.Those who can express themselves, she believes, are the ones who can weather the loudest storms, and she writes to be one of them. Now this story draws its inspiration from the quiet struggles of neurodivergent minds and the need to be seen in a world that often wants to “fix” what it doesn’t understand. Without giving too much away—This Time, We Choose is a haunting journey of identity, control, and choosing freedom, no matter the cost.

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