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On the slope behind the house today I cut through roots and rocks and Dug a hole, deep and wide, Carted away form it each stone And all the friable, thin earth. Then I knelt there a moment, walked In the old woods, bent down again, using A trowel and both my hands to scoop Black, decaying woods-soil with the warm Smell of fungi from the trunk of a rotting Chestnut tree--two heavy buckets full I carried Back to the hole and planted the tree inside; Carefully I covered the roots with peaty soil, Slowly poured sun-warmed water over them, Mudding them gently until the soil settled. It stands there, young and small, Will go on standing when we are gone And the huge uproar, endless urgency and Fearful delirium of our days forgotten. The fohn will bend it , rainstorms tear at it, The sun will laugh, wet snow weigh it down, The siskin and the nuthatch make it their home, And the silent hedgehog burrow at its foot. All it has ever experienced, tasted, suffered: The course of years, generations of animals, Oppression, recovery, friendship of sun and wind Will pour forth each day in the song Of its rustling foliage, in the friendly Gesture of its gently swaying crown, In the delicate sweet scent of resinous Sap moistening the sleep glued buds, And the eternal game of lights and Shadows it plays with itself, content. Page from a journal by Hermann Hesse |
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