Dad, Rosie said, did the world ever thank Uncle Bret for those trees?
Thanking
Uncle
Bret
Each
April
tall
cherry
trees
shout
spikes
of
coral
pink
blossoms,
arch
out
in
a
half-canopy
over
Country
Club
Road
in
Lake
Oswego,
showering
petals
on
Land
Rovers
and
Prius
hybrids
as
they
slow
for
the
5-way
free
for-
all
before
driving
down
A
Avenue
to
Portland,
or
West
Linn
or
Foothills
Park
where
William
Staffords
words
speak
from
stones
above
the
Willamette
River.
His
son
Bret
Stafford
and
300
high
school
kids
blistered
hands
on
shovels,
cradled
one
hundred
heavy
root
balls
into
the
dirt,
watered,
waited,
celebrated
the
skinny
first
sprigs
of
spring.
Fifty
Aprils
and
these
trees
still
crowd
shoulder
to
shoulder,
parade
spectators
lining
the
street.
Golfers
swing
behind
the
flaming
row.
In
the
water
hazard
a
white
stone
swan
feigns
a
swim.
Photograph
of
Bret
Stafford
by
William
Stafford,
ca.
1965