I hope they look at the trees first.

One hundred years from now,

I hope they languish among the extant timber of the yard

and then move through the house in a hurry

keen on returning to the wildwood sea of needles.

Maybe they will look at the first-planted Spruce  

and exclaim that one hundred owls could burrow there;

one hundred owls among the sprouting quills of blue-green

and their two hundred eyes like ornaments. 

How I would love to listen for all of them 

from Heaven’s open window at night.

The trees will be tall then.

Too tall for even the bravest and longest-limbed child to climb.

Hand over hand over branch, leg bent to the ear in a stretch

I would hope that the child still tries.

But they will not be so tall that the top is unseen.

Oh to gaze upon their peaks like praying hands, 

joined together on some, forming arches like guards;

keepers of trust in water and sun.

All the same I am here now,

holding the hose to the roots, and then along the reach of arms.

There is a song on repeat for each bud of spring, 

I sing it when the clinging diamonds of water move slightly in the warm wind 

and think that

whoso cannot connect to the splendor of a sapling

will not see the kingdom that grows.