A drop of sweat drips from his brow.
As he prepares to work his plow.
This man is old, well past his prime
His sunburned face and hands show time.
He kneels down into the dust
As a breeze begins to gust
He draws a breath, so smooth and still
And looks about his barren hill.
He pulls his arm up to his side
And opens his tired palm up wide
Upon his worn and callused skin
A seed, no bigger than a pin.
He drops the seed into the ground
And slowly covers it with a mound
He fills a pail with clean, clear water
And muddies the dust as it grows hotter.
The old man hobbles to his feet
And now returns to plow his wheat
He knows his time is running out
He will be gone before the sprout.
As the seasons come and go
So does the sun and rain and snow
Although the man has long been gone
His seedling now is living on.
Its roots go deep in to the earth
Pulling up food from its birth
Its branches soar, so wild and free
What once was a seed is now a tree.
The barren hill is a suburb now
No more time for a rake or plow
A fast paced life, a fast paced time
The year is 1999.
The tree stands alone in a park somewhere
A young boy sits without a care
He soaks in the shade and takes out a book
He has found his escape. He has found his nook.
He visits the lonely tree each day
They sit they read they laugh they play
The old man looks down from his place
And slowly a smile creeps to his face.
