On the twenty-fifth of November, under the late Spring sun, The potting mix is heavy, the season has begun. A volunteer’s vocation, where the soil meets the skin, To heal the fractured landscape and let the wild back in.
Seven crates of plastic cells, waiting to be filled, A rhythm in the motion, a patience strictly drilled. Scoop and tap and level, the black tubes stand in rows, Three hundred and thirty-six homes where a future forest grows.
It seems a small endeavour, just specks of dust and seed, Resting on the damp dark earth, a microscopic need. But in this act of “TreeProject” faith, a vision starts to rise, Of canopies that one day will brush against the skies.
November’s light is guiding them, the warmth is in the air, Each tube a tiny nursery tended with a grower’s care. From fragile stems to sturdy trunks, the roots will deep descend, To bind the creek banks tightly and make the pastures mend.
I see them not as plastic pots, but giants yet to be, A windbreak for the paddock, a shelter for the bee. The Cassinia, the Blue Gum, the Wattle’s golden fleece, Sleeping in these humble tubes, waiting for release.
So wash the soil from tired hands, the sowing work is done, The trays are lined up neatly, absorbing rain and sun. Three hundred and thirty-six chances for the earth to breathe again, A legacy of green and shade, grown by the hands of Arawaterians.