Transplanting the Hackberry
A poem
Transplanting the Hackberry
Not the soil, but the scent of soil,
crumbles of earth that leave my hands
as I attempt to dig around the hackberry
that has volunteered to grow on the edge
of my flower garden alongside my lawn.
Not the root, but the touch of the taproot
to my fingers as I feel it clinging
still one foot underground and still
reaching, and I worry that I have
attempted this transplant too late,
that the cutting of this root
from this soil will cull the tree
rather than save it, but location alone
will do the same — lawn mower
or trimmer beware, clippers coming
to take the tree growing too close to my house,
so I pull the root still extending,
cup the tree in my hands
to place it from soil of earth
into soil manmade, a plastic pot.
Not the compost, but the taste of compost,
of what once were the ingredients
that became the compost I place
in the…
