Twenty now-distant years ago
I planted a tiny tree
In the front yard
Of my childhood home.
I held it in one small hand
And scooped the dirt away
With a trowel.

Just Yesterday
I finally recognized
The inalterable fact
That people never change.
We never will change.

The tree towers
Over my head now.
Swaying in the wind
It houses the plump robins
That winter here
North of the border.

The tree is green and wide and tall
And every bit as much a Blue Spruce
As the day
It fell from its cone,
split its seed,
And began its hundred-year trek
Toward earth’s center
And the warmth of the sun.