Plum Tree

  

By John I. Blair 

 

Twenty years ago
I placed a baby plum tree
Into a hole I’d dug.

I watered,
Watched, and cared
For that tree.

Five years no flowers,
No seen reward
For all my work and time;

But then it bloomed --
A few at first, eventually
A rare cloud of white.

Bees swarmed
Each spring, feasting
On sweet nectar.

Now and then
Small fruit formed,
Ripened, dropped to ground.

And once or twice
A new tree sprouted
Underneath.

Plums lead short lives;
In 15 years mine died,
Succeeded by its children.

Yesterday, my birthday
(The 80th, but who’s counting)
The dead tree, tall, bare,

Was taken down,
Chopped in chunks, then tossed
Beneath a nearby hedge,

There to wait decay,
Disappear beneath the soil,
Return to whence it came.

A shame it’s not that easy
To care for us as thoughtfully.

©2021 John I. Blair, 6/22/2021

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