This is For You
Annie Spratt for Unsplash THIS IS FOR YOU The tired old poet stoops, pressing another sapling into the soil as though he were stitching the torn edge of time itself. His hands tremble, yet they move with the certainty of rivers shaping stone. He will never taste the fruit, never rest beneath the wide and merciful shade. Still, he plants. The act is its own inheritance, a covenant written in root and branch. The future gathers in vine, bush, and tree: Persimmon, walnut, loquat, fig, and grape. What he tends now is not for him, but for strangers unborn, who will arrive to find the earth already generous. True strength is not conquest, but patience—the refusal to hoard today’s sun when tomorrow’s mouths will hunger. A real man’s monument is invisible: a grove whispering with wind, carrying his name in leaves he never touched. This is for you. ----- Prompted by Dverse Poets Pub, this Prosery contains a line from Ivor Winters Time in the Garden . ----- ©2025 Christopher Re...
