The Old Man and the Tree

In a corner of the shady garden

All by itself it stood,

Bare of foliage or flowers,

Just a gnarled piece of wood.

Too deep in the soil

Were embedded it’s roots,

So they just let it be there

Forgotten, of no use.

All around the garden grew

With weeded lawns and seeded beds,

Painted fences, watered plants,

Blooming flowers and the shapely hedge.

But no one looked at the crooked stump,

Much less even gave it a glance,

Till the old man visited one day,

Stumbled upon it perchance.

“You are old and bent like me,

Do you have a story to share?

Like me have you lived a rich life?

To each other our hearts we could bare.

Thus saying he sat down beside it,

Around the stump his arm did lay,

Put his ear close to the warm wood,

“I’m listening”, he said, “have your say.”

From a distance the gardeners smiled

At the sight of the old man and the tree,

And thinking the old man senile

Decided to just let them be.

Then when the shadows grew longer

To the corner they made their way,

Gently helped the old man to his feet,

Led him indoors, lest he stagger or sway.

That night by the glowing lamplight

Words swirling around in his head,

The old man sat down and wrote

All to him that the tree had said.

It was a long, long time ago,

I was just a few feet tall,

 Slender branches, tender young leaves,

Not yet mature, just green and small.

Everyone took care of me,

Guided my branches as they grew,

A fence of sorts kept away the dog,

In the noon I had water, at night the dew.

With love and utmost care

And the warmth of the brilliant sun,

I grew up tall and strong,

A haven for birds, bees, everyone.

They all came flocking to me,

Morning, noon and night,

To play amongst my branches,

Sometimes to just behold my sight.

And when I sprouted blossoms

Pretty, fresh, whitish, blooms,

They loved me all the more,

 And for the bees I was a boon.

They kept a loving eye on me,

As the blossoms turned to fruit,

Smiled with joy at the ripe globes

To their heart’s content they did loot.

My trunk had loving scars so many

As they etched and drew and scratched,

I have heard their deepest thoughts

In my shade when they have sat.

While on my boughs have hung

Braided ropes with swinging seats,

I have felt the warmth and softness

The climbing by little feet.

But as the years soon passed,

 Little ones the nest had flown,

The swing hung limp and broken,

From my branches the leaves all shorn.

My fruit lay scattered and rotting,

 No one to pick and choose,

Those yellow globes that had once been

Relished by all, none could refuse.

My bark was made a scratching post

By the dog who had his day,

Then the woodworm too attacked my roots

And I began to decay.

Now I lie here, all spent and sad,

And think back to those years,

When I had all and all loved me,

And there was no time for tears.

All I ask is a hand on my trunk

While I slowly breathe my last,

Hearts that thank me for all I’ve been,

Tell me, is that too much to ask?

With tears flowing down his cheeks he wrote,

The sad story of the dying tree,

And then he penned the epilogue,

We share the same story, the tree and me.