If these rows of pine could speak,
They'd tell of deeds unseen.
They'd tell of silent years spent,
By the shepherd of the trees.

Once open fields and golden stalk,
Where now these pines grow strong,
Started with a quiet man,
And a will to right life's wrongs.

As bright blue as sky above,
His eye saw the promise of rebirth.
Where forgotten, fallow fields lay,
Trees could spring from earth.

Armed with the tools of a planter,
He worked shovel and hoe.
He coaxed from long forgotten acre,
The life hiding deep below.

Day after day he filled the earth,
With tender saplings new.
He walked each row he planted,
Watched them as they grew.

Soon day gave way to week,
And week gave way to year.
He found his solace among his rows.
For among them resides no fear.

He found, out among his trees,
Days overrun with grace.
Memory flowed like water there,
He found a slower pace.

There were no pressing deadlines,
No measure of waste or rot.
Just the earth, the sky, the wind and tree.
And the silence he sought.

When frozen flake met sharp needle,
And decorations twinkled with lights,
He parted with a few of his perfect pines.
In exchange for children's smiling delights.

As each pine was cut in December snow,
His heart filled with joy.
He knew each memory created around his trees,
Would long outlive the toys.

Like the trees he tended,
He was silent in his vigil.
The wind and sun his clothing,
The evergreen his sigil.

Yet, time waits for none.
And his trees now stand alone.
No more busy December mornings.
Nothing left for which to atone.

Within the trees he tended,
Was love, recorded in each tree ring.
Now only spoken among the birds,
Forever echoed in the song they sing.

The rows remain a living tribute;
As they gently sway in earthy breeze.
An everlasting memorial,
To the shepherd of the trees.


© Nichole Proctor