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...