MIDWIFE

I planted the tree 

and there was a time,

early in its life,

when I thought it 

wasn’t going to make it.

But it slowly crawled upward,

grew branches,

budded, 

sprouted green,

was twice as tall as me,

then three times,

and finally, 

more of me than I 

could possibly imagine.

It was on first-name terms

with the sky by this.

It tolerated my hands

rubbing its trunk

but its real interests

were all that blueness, 

the occasional rain -shower

that buffed up its foliage,

slaked the thirst of its roots.

And there was the sun of course,

its mother, its father,

which made me no more

than a midwife.

Okay, so it was never my child.

But it owes me.

I brought it into the world.

I go elsewhere for my firewood.