Have you ever pondered the
birth of leaves?
Have you wondered what nudges them
from the womb of their buds,
in this seasonal morning
of the year?
I walked the fields this afternoon
as impatient as any child on
Christmas Eve,
searching for signs of life in the
believably dead-looking twigs
on the saplings I had
set out as bare roots
this past winter.
Like the generous Sower of the parable
(though, perhaps, with more thought to site conditions)
I scattered my trees across the landscape.
Yet, whether they thrive
or wither
is beyond my control.
Slivers of green are emerging
on the yellow birches, but
the red and silver maples are lazily dozing,
their leaf buds plump with the roundness
of a uterus about to give birth.
The beech and river birches,
the persimmons and the oaks
are deep in their arboreal dreams,
not ready to give thought to waking.
They will not be rushed, and
care not for my eagerness, nor
my hopes.
And so today I peered closely
at each one, not
with the eyes of a husbandman,
but with the eyes of a mother,
blessing, and
urging my tiny trees to live and
bear fruit and
to grow into
what they may become,
long after I am
gone.
