An Act of Faith
Feb 9 2009


There was more snow, that winter.
But the house in the pictures hasn’t changed;
the road ploughed, the shadows crisp,
the flag stiff
in a brisk west wind.
It’s the tiny trees I find surprising,
barely straggling
above the drifts.

I remember this sapling
planting it,
thinking
how this tree would still be standing
long after I’m gone.
And how small it was,
how long ‘til its shade
would even be noticed.
Because I am an impatient man,
like you
seduced
by instant gratification.

So it was an act of faith
on that warm spring day
on my knees beside the house,
digging into moist brown soil
that smelled of rich decay;
down to hard-packed earth,
where the cool tendrils of winter
persisted.

Every spring, its tight green buds unfurl.
And every fall, I rake them up
into crisp brown piles.
I lean against its trunk
feel the bark's roughness
and imagine strangers, coming.
Who will wonder about the man who lived here, once;
who planted trees
who pruned and fussed
and grew them up
into giants.