O Tree Born to Live a Thousand Generations
O tree, born to live a thousand generations
So young, so bright so tender green before.
Now bent and broken by some careless foot.
Your splintering stem gives me pause for grief,
And a closer inspection on bent knee:
A fatal crack to you it could well be.
Many of more seasons and greater height
Than you have been felled by lesser trauma.
But you’re a strong looking fella, aren’t you?
This won’t be your end, I don’t think it will
Not yet, at least.
But down the years — I can see it all now —
You’ll grow tall, send your branches out afar
Wide over field, reaching toward the sun
Hard and hearty your trunk will sure become,
But this dark crack, this fissure will remain.
Then wind will come, the lashing winter storm
And your heft — this break so long well concealed —
Will bring it cracking down. Like lighting’s boot
Come straight down on you, splitting spine in two.
Heartwood raw and rent, exposed to grubs, mold,
Decay, and rot.
Oh the glory you could have been! If not
Bruised so casual and cruel today?
I see that future too. Your noble crown,
With boughs gracing you all around — cheerful
With spring; peaceful and still in June’s ambling
Eventide; dancing and boisterous
Arrayed with fire by autumns dying light;
Sanguine in winter — I can see you still
Tall and strong long since I am gone
When your memory is old and the great
You’ll be young.
Would that I could mend you now. Would that I
This future could ensure. Would that something
Of myself could be given to bind you.
Were I the heart, the great song that made you!
Could I but dream you a new beginning!
But this crude splint — little good — all I offer.
If you could hear me, I’d speak the visions
Of the future I see, what you could be.
Or greater still, declare it all unmeant.
But what is once broken is beyond me.
I cannot mend.
But holding your supple stem, preparing
To let go, I sense, in you, the beauty
Of the Maker’s intent. My fingers feel
A scion of the unbroken ancient line
The handiwork of One who knows no time —
A connection, an imprint, signet, sign.
So can a broken branch be born anew?
What if in time I come again, and you —
By rains falling in their season and out —
Will endure, become the wreck I’ve foreseen —
About to fall?
So tree, born to live a thousand generations —
Broken, destined to rot beyond use and
Repair — should I give up, resign myself
To our despair? Perhaps. Perhaps in time,
By labor long and by hope I could learn
The grafting art, a master to become.
On that day, should you still stand, though listing,
Fragile, and dire be, could something fertile
And enduring not from you and my craft grow?
And come to show: like the Maker, re-makers
We now can be?
