My hands are worn of work, and
holding an aching memory of
yesterday’s efforts to plant a
tree that will live five hundred years.
I was thinking it would be
eleven or twelve generations from now,
a child homegrown of my roots
might look to see some splendid legacy still
yearning into earth, still reaching for the sky,
having once been pulled from a bucket and
placed in the ground by hands
aching to turn the world around.