The Stump

A stolid stump lays silent there,
Its withered trunk stands barren, bare.
An empty shell, it slumps, defeated:
Beauty and power all depleted.

It mournfully awaits the day
When machines and men will pave the way
For roads, across the hills and plains:
Streets that cannot grow, laugh, or feel the rain.
That will never know a mother's soft caress,
Just continuing on in their gloriousness.

Its rings reminisce the happy days
When children would climb its branches to play.
Their laughter resounding all around,
Making a home out of the earth, roots, and soft warm ground.

Yet now they toil so busily,
And travel only on the highways, roads and streets.
Could they have been the ones who spent
Their time to destroy a place so opulent?

Or were they the ones that turned away,
And without knowing it, turned the tree into the stump it is today?
And created this world of imperfection,
Just to add one more car to their collection.

The lesson of the stump rings clear and true:
It is not the world to blame; it is me and you,
It is what you are and what you do,
That creates the world you see around you.