It's a cool spring southern day
I, yet, wipe sweat from my bare brow
and pause to watch a sedge field sway
while listening to a lowing cow.

I lean on a shovel for support.
Knees ache from digging the six holes
which now hold trees, more than one sort,
their trunks too small to be called boles.

Two apple, two peach and two pear
now paced along my gravel drive.
In a year or two perhaps they'll bear
if by then they're still alive.

For who's to say that drought won't come
or ice to shatter slender trunk.
Disease could easily wipe out some.
Roots could be dug out by a skunk.

Yet I believe they'll all survive
to each become a mature tree
their blossoms feeding some bee's hive.
It's likely they will out live me.

Haiku Version

By the sweat of my brow
I invest in the future
hoping young trees live