Charred Tree

This spring in place of raking, I burned some winter debris from my gardens. I chose a windless day, and before igniting the grasses in two front-yard gardens near the house, I readied a water bucket and hose.

They burned slowly and gloriously to the ground, along with surrounding birch leaves.

The back corner garden was farther from the house--too far for risk. Now an experienced fire fighter, I left the hose and bucket in the front yard.

Those stands of miscanthus grass and hibiscus also burned glorious and golden, also igniting leaves--abundantly supplied by backyard oaks. The flames moved along a trail of leaves toward an arbor vita. I knew its moist green needles were not at risk.

I didn’t count on the dead brown needles lurking inside. Fire whooshed upward, engulfed the green needles, and emitted a pillar of smoke.

I knew a run for the water was futile. I watched as a black skeleton emerged from the flames. Then I assessed the damage. A few green needles still dangled from the west branches. Could these bones live?

I have now watched the arbor vita's charred branches for a month, as I raked away remaining leaves, divided dwarf fountain grasses, and edged the bed. I have lost hope of a resurrection, but I have not cut down the tree.

My gardens are on Pella’s Garden Tour in June. I don’t want a charred arbor vita shouting my shortcomings to the world. Tourists will gaze at the black bones, weigh my garden in the balance, and find it wanting.

I share their judgement. I was negligent: I should have had the hose at hand. I was ignorant: I didn’t know the arbor vitae’s green veneer concealed a tinder pile.

I decide to finish what the fire began.

Saw in hand, I pause. I remember the moment of the whoosh, the orange tongues, the pouring smoke—and how I felt.

I watched ascending billows, heard the crackle and roar, and stood in awe. Even a hose at hand would not have saved it. In the twinkling of an eye, the arbor vita was transformed by power unplanned, unforeseen--and totally beyond my control.

I didn’t hear a voice, but I should have taken off my shoes.

I return the saw to the shop.

For this season, at least, I will leave the charred branches in the corner of my backyard garden, a reminder of a burning bush, of holy ground.