franny

At the back of our acre here, my wife and I,  freshly moved in, freshly together,  transplanted two hemlocks that guarded our door  gloomily, green gnomes a meter high.  One died, gray as sagebrush next spring.  The other lives on and some day will dominate  this view no longer mine, its great  lazy feathery hemlock limbs down-drooping,  its tent-shaped caverns resinous and deep.  Then may I return, an old man, a trespasser,  and remember and marvel to see  our small deed, that hurried day,  so amplified, like a story through layers of air  told over and over, spreading.