Ode to an Old Nurseryman

Tyambee Nursery and Landscaping. Family owned business 1959-2003. Loading up the flatbed to deliver Hemlock. Tying them in to prevent wind damage while transporting. Lionel Beck, my father, and the best dog I ever had, Barney, a stray. (May, 1985)

Ode to an Old Nurseryman

Last night the moon spoke aloud

alone I stood in fields unplowed

pocked where once I shocked roots

and bound their wounds

with burlap hide,

butterfly baskets, and two-ply rope.

In and out of cloud it drifted.

The light lit my heart uplifted

when in my days of youth

I struck the earth

with a straight edge spade

and trenched a girth from hardpan dirt.

The sycamore, the serotina

the kurumatzu and pinus strobus;

shadows across the greening glade

where I put foot to shovel blade.

There I planted rows of bareroot timber

no rounder than a thumb or finger

homaged them as if fostered children

arising from a budding slumber.

Watched them grow until they reached a height

then transplanted them to a different site. 

Oh, how worthy a trade it was

seedling the earth and moving conifers.

Of all the things due my regret,

not that I lost my labor spent

such worthy toil is heaven sent.

Of all the things due my regret,

I can't father the field I left

and to my children beget

the calloused hand and respect for sweat

earned by working the shovel bent.