I took a small tree which had no branches and I transplanted it. I chose richer soil because I wanted a big tree. The tree grew no taller but many branches sprouted from it. One by one as the branches grew, I cut them off for firewood. At last the branches ceased to grow.
I pulled up the small tree and put it back where it had come from.
A speaker takes a small, bare tree, plants it in better soil, and hopes it will become a big one. It never gets taller, but it does sprout branches, and instead of letting them grow, the speaker cuts each one off for firewood. Eventually the tree stops producing them altogether. Then the speaker digs it up and returns it to where it started.
The poem reads like a quiet parable about expectation. The speaker wanted a particular result, and when the tree gave something different, it was treated as raw material rather than as a living thing. The flat, matter-of-fact tone is what makes it unsettling: there's no outburst, just a series of small, practical decisions. The mood is cool and faintly sad, with a hint of regret in that final act. Whether the speaker is a gardener, a parent, or someone in a relationship is left open, which invites you to wonder who else might be "planted," used up, and sent back.