The old weathered stump in the clear meadow stood in a state of advanced decay.
The grass waved their head as they laughed at this dead, grey relic from some other day.
True, the blow that shattered its once lofty trunk has long been forgotten and gone.
But the gnarled, grey wood, moss covered, still stood – defiant, majestic and strong.
The roots to the south, away from the winds, where few take the time to stray,
One day caught a breeze which, slowed by the squeeze, dropped a seed from a pine far away.
Encircled around by the grey and the brown of the trunk, the seed came to rest.
In a hollow all warm, away from the storm, and the wind, and the snow cross the crest.
The soil, all rich from the rotting grey hulk, was eager its bounty to share.
Soon up in the root came a tender young shoot from the seed that was nestling there.
Then came the day when the clouds blew away, that a sapling stood solid with spunk.
While there all around the grass on the ground lay the last remains of the trunk.
The old stump gave that the pine live, but the seed brought the life that it bore.
Yet who at the last, a judgment could cast, as to which to the pine meant the more?
