my grandfather knows trees
like I know the bark of his calloused hands
their leaves, their roots, their flowers
you know it’s a silverleaf maple
when you can look out the car window
on the seasick scenic route
and the wind rustling through the leaves
shows you their soft gray underbellies
my grandfather lights bonfires
whittles sassafras branches down
to spear marshmallows upon
you know the sassafras has three kinds of leaves
ovals, mittens, three-lobed
all on the same tree, same branches
and that its bark smells like the A&W
that my sisters and I sip while sitting on the swingset
my grandfather builds chicken wire fences
to keep the deer out of the blueberry bushes
in the field by the orchard
you know the cherries taste best mid-June
in the evening, after a long day of hard work
satisfying, like realizing one summer
that your scrawny arbor day pine’s branches
now stretch out wider than your wingspan
my grandfather grows trees
blue spruces lining the driveway
now shedding needles, turning brown
you know there’s some deadly fungus
it’s going to take them all someday
He told me so but I don’t want to believe it
ever since lightning toppled the largest one
in a dry summer thunderstorm
my grandfather nurtures trees
watering, feeding, pruning, laboring
all so their strong branches may graze the sky
you know the oldest tree recorded was near 5000
before they felled it in the name of science
and my tree has many years before forever
but I fervently believe it could live until then
off my grandfather’s care and my desperate hopes
but my grandfather knows trees
when it’s time to let them go
rent a woodchipper, grab the saw
you know to count a tree’s rings
to learn how long it stood
to guess which years had droughts
and to cherish when the sun and rain were friends
a wisdom only gained through death
I know the chipmunks burrow now
deep and warm in the old tree’s mulch
I know mushrooms grow out of barren trunks
and that sometimes fires need to burn
for new seeds to have space to breathe
I know at this moment my tree still stands
and for now I can rest my worries safe
in my grandfather’s hands
and that it’s okay to mourn the stumps and splinters
for I know grief, like trees, takes time
