Lucca Daniel Green 23 July 2020 There are some who will outlive us all: the poplar and pine placed by our hands, the oaks and many maples that came leaping into the sun-drenched sky that year we sprang from human earth: these are they who will outlive us all, our stewards and memory-keepers, whose breath we breathe so greedily. There are some who will outlive us all, but I’ve planted only so few trees. Two pines only in my youth, and only one yet lives, --though it thrives. Two crabapples for him --I pulled one, dead, from unforgiving dirt-- a cherry, and two pears. May they yet survive. Only this very season have I set earth around the roots parched brown of a pink-budding dogwood and two enduring poplars and from seeds collected on covetous walks through a city, a forest foursquare, from a dozen given to Gaia as gifts for her nurture, one verdant-growing redbud. Gods, make them prosper. And let us live at least until we’ve done our share to replenish the earth, our Mother who bore us, with those stewards who will outlive us all.
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