Our teachers
sent us home
with tiny trees to plant—
before green was
en vogue.
The same temporary
dad who taught me
how to tell time, helped
his daughter and me
to plant our baby oaks,
side by side.
Days later, when ruffians
knocked mine down,
I wept as if my spindly
sapling possessed a soul—
as if the brokenness were
my own flesh.
Since my tears never ended
quickly, I am sure they watered
my tree the day I knelt opposite
Dad as he splinted and bound it
with popsicle sticks and string.
I returned often to examine
the wound, forgetting even
that it was mine by
midsummer when I moved
to the next foster home.
I was 19 when
Mr. White said, Look,
Evie. that’s your tree;
it’s the bigger of the two—
and stronger.
Some things I never really
forget but don’t realize
until tears tell me not
all that is wounded
and broken dies.
Last week I paid
earnest money for
a lot with two trees;
my home will be
built between them.
– Mary E. Kocher
