Upon Seeing a Stump Where a Tree Once Was
When in the park, I passed a felled oak tree
That once with lofty boughs would softly sway.
At least, I’m sure, it must have waved that way
Had I but stopped with eyes willing to see.
Had I but stopped and let the leaves shade me
And dozed a moment on too hot a day,
Or heard the thrush and rushing children play,
Would this have helped that aged oak to be
Not twice felled now, in mind and upon earth?
Or is its swaying all the softer for
A passing glance that never stung the soul?
For now its roots delve deeper in the dirt,
And look, its branches spread forevermore,
To fan out dressed in all of autumn’s gold.
Conor McGinley is a copywriter based out of Brooklyn, New York.
