Happy Little Maple
July 28, 2015
Oh, happy little maple, I grew you from a seed
I’d planted in my back yard, and much water did I feed
You as you sat there happily sprouting from the ground,
Soaking in the sunlight that shined down all around.
Oh, happy little maple, the pains I took gladly
For days, weeks, months—all in hopes you’d grow to be
A happier, bigger maple, strong like any other tree
With bushy branches long and proud for all the world to see.
Oh, how I’d have loved to see such a one-tree canopy,
But alas, little maple, such was not the fate for thee,
For o’er the past few weeks, Mother Nature’s had her days
When for some reason, she decided not to let things go that way.
Oh, how the wind did howl, then! Oh, how the rain poured down!
Such a ceaseless, sour torrent to mark Mother Nature’s frown—
So sour, in fact, that your branches, soft and thin as they were,
Just couldn’t take the pressure, hence their snapping into spurs.
Oh, how your limbs just hung there after all was said and done
When the wind and the rain finally stopped and out came the sun
To heat the humid air so and remind us all of the season
As we saw the aftermath of Nature’s fit, regardless of reason.
Oh, sad and sundered maple, you weren’t happy anymore,
Naught but stumps a-sticking out from where your branches tore.
To think that all the time I’d spent had been flushed down the drain.
Damn you, Mother Nature, for causing me such pain!
Oh, crippled, creaking maple, I hated to see you suffer,
But alas, you fractured condition I just couldn’t buffer,
No matter how much I wished to see you standing tall and free
And proud out in the open like how things used to be.
Oh, broken, bitter maple, you so deserved to live,
But a swift release from your misery was all that I could give,
So I hope you forgive the handsaw I had to take to you,
For alas, dear gentle maple, ‘twas all that I could do.
Oh, how I wept as I sawed you this way and that,
Reducing you to logs no bigger than a housecat.
Oh, how my tears did flow then like the rain from that fateful day,
Stinging even as I used my free hand to wipe them away,
And now, miserable maple, you sit as part of a pile
By my shed in the backyard, not to be touched for a while—
For several months, in fact, when the first snow falls
And the wind again blows fiercely, fracturing other trees and all.
I’m sorry, little maple, for ‘tis all I could do,
And forever am I reminded of all I’d sought for you.
If only I was Nature, I’d watch my Ps and Qs
And make sure I didn’t do what that bitch had done to you.
Oh, how I hate excuses—especially making them—
But if nothing else, I have the chance to become a father again,
For here in a small bucket, its tight-fitting lid sealed shut,
I keep your brothers and sisters in a dry space in my hut,
And once again, butchered maple, I’ll plant your kind from seed,
Keeping your sibling safe from the diabolical deed
That claimed your life, all the while feeding water and sun
To your budding sibling, hoping one day he or she will become
The same kind of happy little maple you’d been before,
Albeit a little stronger so when Nature kicks down the door
And throws her tantrum, he or she will survive the whole ordeal,
And when that happens, I’ll purge myself of this grief I feel.
Rest in peace then, little maple, for though you’ve passed on,
Your legacy shall not yet end, but instead grow strong,
And I’ll move forward from this tragedy we’ve both endured,
Now that my resolution as a parent has been stirred.
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