By: Holly Day
The trees grow close to the old house, reach out with blossom-stippled limbs
as if trying to remember. There are bodies buried beneath the layers of stucco
and drywall, a skeleton built up of skeletons stolen from a forest long ago.
If you plant a tree limb in the dirt and care for it, feed it, water it
protect it from wind and errant children’s toys, it will put out tiny roots
and then bigger ones, and then one day, it will become a tree.
I’d like to image that someday, when we are long gone, and this house
has been reduced to its original pine-timber frame, those rough-hewn boards
will put out tiny roots, too, find some way back into the soil.