Little Miss Seed-In-The-Dark — Plants the Tree She Won't Sit Under

Lyrics

Old friend.
Your wooden handle, smooth as river stone from my own palm.
We've been here before, you and I.
Early spring, the ground gives way so easy.
Before the sun has cleared the iron fence on Elm Street.
Just the cool, damp scent of overturned earth, a promise of what's to come.

This is the work.
My hands in the dark, rich soil.
I am planting the tree I will not sit under.
I am burying a seed of hope by hand.
No receipt for this shade.

Alright, little one. An oak.
Barely a foot of you, just a switch against the grey morning light.
Your roots, a fragile net of threads.
I see the century sleeping in your tiny, furled leaves.
I see the wide shade and the high branches.
Hold fast, now.
Hold on.

This is the work.
My hands in the dark, rich soil.
I am planting the tree I will not sit under.
I am burying a seed of hope by hand.
No name on the bark for this shade.

Someday, a child I'll never meet will run here.
August heat, the air thick with cicadas singing.
He'll press his back against your rough bark, not knowing me.
Not knowing this morning.
A grandmother, maybe his, will point to a nest high in your arms.
A young couple will carve a heart I can't imagine.
They'll never know about this Tuesday in April.
About this well-worn trowel.
And that is the point.
That is the whole, quiet point.

The soil is tamped down firm.
A whisper of water from my bottle, a small dark circle at your base.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, the grit under my nails.
A final look.
And I walk away.
Leaving you to it.
Leaving it to time.