I have done nothing to deserve this tree.
When it was planted I was far away,
and those who lived here never thought of me
as April’s petals whitened into May,
and summer came to silently retrieve
the green it left behind when it moved on.
The planters grew into their time to leave
and gathered their existence, and were gone.
I stand here now with barrow, shovel, rake,
in contemplation of the liberty
I know that I habitually take,
receiving what was never given me,
but mark my row and plant the moment’s seeds,
to make the present what the future needs.