Tending Trees

I walk through the woods this spring morning;
dark, moulding leaves slide under my boots,
heavy with dew. I breathe deep of cool,
fresh air; it bears that spark held secret
in the budding green haze (which I tread).
I pause for one sapling by this path –
and there are many through these old woods –
it’s strong and will flourish, its roots now
deep and immovable surge with sap,
and yet I pause, and stoop, clear a weed,
snap a lifeless twig, do what little
any man may, in passing, for this tree.

I pass while long years harvest their leaves;
I pause less by this spot and my path
often carries me aside. The tree
is sturdy now, heedless of my hand,
uncaring of what care I can give.
Yet that which shapes a tree – the wind, the
shade, the raid, those leaves – has twisted this;
it writhes in still silence, and far from
true will ever be its hidden grain.
Yet something still I savour, in awe
I yet stand. The sapling remembered,
pliant, and pleasing. And loved. And gone.

I walk these woods now late in the year,
at the end of this day, where shadows
lengthen, and this path which takes my steps
starts to chill. But I pause. A sapling
rises proud in today’s leaves, gleaming
in a golden ray. What joy of life
these slender limbs proclaim! How supple
yet, and eager for the adventure
of being! Should my meandering
path bring me to this chance spot again,
this I shall cherish. And now my tear
must fall, for when that which shapes shall touch.


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