Planting Trees

I planted trees last summer, seedling pines,
in a place cleared for hay two hundred years
ago. She calls it a grove already,
and promises to put my ashes there.
I say, OK, but can't imagine death.
Not mine, not yet. Besides, we're here, still here.
The soil is sandy, easy to dig into.
The pines aren't fussy. They put their roots down
anywhere. Almost anywhere. The snow
bends them to the ground, but they spring back straight,
if they don't crack. And even if they do,
they shrug it off, a branch here, a trunk there.
The coolness they make in summer, the wind's
soughing. Imagine! Among those little pines.

Roger Mitchell is the author of seven previous works of poetry and a work of nonfiction.  His work has receivd several awards plus two fellowships each from the Indiana Arts Commission and the National Endowment for the Arts.  His work has appeared in more than thirty anthologies. He taught for many years in the English department at Indiana, University-Bloomington.

Roger Mitchell's poems "are rich in detail, masterly in execution, and always a good read.  He is savvy about the way we Americans live and try to make sense of our lives in this moment in history."—Charles Simic

The above poem was taken from Mitchell's latest book, Delicate Bait (Winner of the 2002 Akron Poetry Prize / The University of Akron Press)

Click here to read more poems by Roger Mitchell.

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