Planting a Sequoia
my brothers and I have worked in the orchard,
Digging this hole, laying you into it, carefully packing the soil.
Rain blackened the horizon, but cold winds kept it over the Pacific,
And the sky above us stayed the dull gray
Of an old year coming to an end.
a father plants a tree to celebrate his first sons birth
An olive or a fig treea sign that the earth has one more life to bear.
I would have done the same, proudly laying new stock into my fathers orchard,
A green sapling rising among the twisted apple boughs,
A promise of new fruit in other autumns.
we kneel in the cold planting you, our native giant,
Defying the practical custom of our fathers,
Wrapping in your roots a lock of hair, a piece of an infants birth cord,
All that remains above earth of a first-born son,
A few stray atoms brought back to the elements.
give you what we canour labor and our soil,
Water drawn from the earth when the skies fail,
Nights scented with the ocean fog, days softened by the circuit of bees.
We plant you in the corner of the grove, bathed in western light,
A slender shoot against the sunset.
our family is no more, all of his unborn brothers dead,
Every niece and nephew scattered, the house torn down,
His mothers beauty ashes in the air,
I want you to stand among strangers, all young and ephemeral to you,
Silently keeping the secret of your birth.
from The Gods of Winter
© 1991 Dana Gioia