Out on the Limb

In the corner
of a yard
there stands a tired old tree.

No leaves, no fruit,
the branches scarce.
Sap flows but just barely.

Scrub brush growing
with some weeds,
vines are on the trunk.

Litter thrown
about its plot,
strewn with discarded junk.

Laughter lost
within the wind,
broken swing holds still.

No longer found
down on the ground
Blue Jays or Whippoorwill.

Boughs once strong
with foliage green
did shield the mighty sun.

Providing shade
about the glade
for children having fun.

Days of grandeur
long since gone,
a cord soon to become.

Cast iron hearth,
black arms of girth,
hot ambers will succumb.

Was it by chance
upon the day
when woodmans ax drew near,

that wind did blow,
thrashed to and fro,
deadwood broke free and clear?

As if a surgeons
skillful hand
had prune away the chaff.

Did needed sculpture
cutting deep,
left standing merely half?

Heavens parted
with beams of light,
a genesis began.

Possibilities emerged
like sprouts
in planters pan.

From once what was
a lifeless growth,
new hope began to brim.

Blossomed forth
fresh fruit and leaves
now found out on the limb.