In My 66th Autumn

In my 66th autumn, I planted an oak tree,
a slow-growing long-living gift to an Earth
I love beyond reason; I won’t see the tree
rise into its fullness, nor witness the circles
of life it supports: the fertilized earth,
the harbored cocoons, wild turkeys, and jays
hummingbirds, insects, arachnids, and squirrels,
I’ve planted a country of branches and burls,
and cavities, breathing for years beyond mine;
four score to maturity, ten score to death,
a preposterous lifespan in this day and age;
my oak tree is rooted in unreasoned hope,
impossible faith, illogical prayers, irrational
visions alive in my heart after 66 autumns,
which must count for something eternally true:
planting is saving, and changing direction,
a signal that choices have yet to be made,
the actions of angels, of women and men,
of people with power and people with light
who may reverse courses enough to preserve
a balance, a moment to notice the world’s
miraculous wonders: an overlooked acorn
becoming an oak, the home of a barn owl
and 66 autumns of love beyond reason,
a love that was rooted in unreasoned hope.

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