presage, a poem

He’d grown the small sprout
as a school project
and while many of the children
had thrown theirs away upon returning home;
he’d taken his deep into the woods
where he knew
there was a small clearing
and once there
he dug a small hole
and prepared to plant
the seedling,
but first he held it
in the palm of his hand
and feeling its tiny weight
he shut his eyes
so that time could spiral forward
and he could see
years from now
at this very same spot
thick gnarled roots
pushing deep,
a heavy anchoring in old soil
from which stretched up a massive trunk
that reached so far it scraped the sky;
while each fork in each extending branch
created a unique pattern
that revealed in its own way
the history
of each drop of rain that had fallen
and each breeze that had blown;
the whole tree with a dignity
that resides only in those
who have survived long enough
to call themselves old.

When the shoot had been planted
and watered generously,
he bent low
and to its tiny leaves
he whispered,

by matt at shadow of iris