To the planter of trees
Two of my frequent routes include an arcade of trees. One is at an intersection I drive by every day, the other on 99E heading south towards Milwaukie, Oregon. Neither is very long—one just a block, the other maybe a quarter-mile. But even when the branches are bare, the trees form this graceful archway that we drive through.
As I went though one the other day, I started wondering about the person or persons who planted those trees. Were they young? Did they see the fruits of their labor? Did they measure carefully the space between the trees, imagining how far apart they needed to be so their branches could grow without touching? Did they plant them hoping that in 80 years, 100 years, the trees would still be alive, healthy, providing a bower for motorists?
It seems to me that planting trees is a pretty selfless act. You may get to watch a sapling get strong, but you will likely not live to see it in its prime. And planting trees is an act of hope, too—hope that someone else will take up the care of the tree, that in the future when the planter is gone someone will look at the tree and offer thanks.
