He has made a habit of it,
Joining the broken branches with gum and glue,
and then staring at it wistfully,
as if it were new.
It is broken though,
and that way it will always be,
But what choice does the old man have,
he’s too old to plant a new tree.
He dreams about the plant that was,
tries to revive it, but he can’t,
so he sits there, rickety bones, sagging skin,
watering a dead plant.
And as the people pass that old man’s shanty,
they look at the naive old fool and smirk,
As he toils to make a dead thing alive,
make an engine-less tractor work.
And then when they are done smirking they ‘turn,
to their sour relationships and dead end jobs,
watering a dead plant of their own,
drowning their days amidst stifled sobs.
A girl walks by selling saplings new,
but no one pays her heed,
And the world goes on, watering a dead plant,
too afraid to plant a new seed.