I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Helen rooted me.
She planted scripture in her conversation without quoting chapter and verse.
She was humble.
She tended my love of simple words.
She gave me this poem from memory on a Saturday morning. I stopped dusting for a moment.
Perhaps that was the day she asked me to wash her feet.