Planter of Trees

Trees grow in New England soil
unsought, untended, wild,
springing up even in unlikely places,
on the edge of a windblown beach,
or high in the merest crack
of a bouldered cliff.
But out on the prairie,
where sky is everywhere
and long grass waves in the wind,
a tree rises, holds on
to the earth for dear life.
To be a planter of trees there
is a holy calling,
a work that takes a life.
My uncle loved the hardy oaks,
the cottonwoods by the river,
cried when the elms died one by one.
He prayed on his knees,
pressing large-knuckled hands
into Iowa soil,
stroking a slip of wood
which would be a peach tree
if he gave it enough water,
a pruning here and there
after winter was finished with it,
and, of course,
love.

--Timothy Haut, March 3, 2012