Here for Good

Sept 14 2011

A gentle slope

of wildflowers, stunted brush,

dropped by wind

on runners, burrowing-in

underground.

Stony soil, good sun,

where stiff nor’westers

blow unobstructed.

A decade since

we put in the jack pine,

grown from seed.

A sharp jab

with steel shovel,

spindly sapling, seated roughly,

earth tamped neatly back.

Repeat.

So 5 years on

end of season

I survey the survivors.

There was the frantic greening of June,

when it felt like a steamy bayou

that would choke-off, swallow-up

everything made by man.

And a hot dry August,

that sent roots deep

tested toughness.

Noticeably taller

some inching over my head.

But willowy, wands in the wind,

as if they grew too quick

were life or death.

Needles thin, top-heavy

like hungry new-born birds.

  …But all-in-all, here for good.

I will grow old

and they will be full,

generous with shade.

I will be gone

and they will be strong,

with thick branches

wizened, twisted.

A monument to foresight,

on a hot spring day, long forgotten.

When we scattered saplings, without a plan

on that tangled slope

that had gone to nature.

Imagining cool escape

in high summer.

A sanctuary of trees,

wind-toughened

green canopy, up above.

Not really believing

they’d come to much.