The Cherry tree

Six years have passed
Since I dug a cherry tree into the grass.
"I want a tree of my own", I said
Watered it once and went to bed.
And forgot; but cherrt trees have a way of growing
Though no one's caring very much or knowing,
And suddenly that summer at the end of May,
I found a cherry tree had come to stay.
It was small, a tiny child,
Lost in the tall grass running wild.
Goats ate the leaves, the grasscutter's scythe,
Split it apart, and a monsoon blight,
Shrivelled its slender stem... Even so,
Next spring, I saw three more new shoots grow.
The young tree reached for the Sun.
The months passed, one by one,
And we went away the following year,
On a holiday in Kashmir.
When I came home, again I saw,
A cherry tree growing at my door.
Six feet high, my own dark cherry,
And- I could hardly believe it- a berry!
Ripe and shining from the sun,
Hung from a branch- just one!
And the next year there were blossoms small,
Pink, delicate, and quick to fall,
At the smallest breath, the sleepiest breeze.
I lay in the grass, at ease,
Looked up through the leaves,
At the blue clear sky, And at the finches as they flew
And flitted through the dappled green
While happy bees drank
Nectar from each blossom, and the sun sank
And the stars turned in the sky,
And moon moths, singing crickets and I,
Praised night and stars and tree;
A small, tall cherry tree, planted by me.

- Ruskin Bond