a tree.

 

 

  There used to be a tree. Not one of particular grandeur, but still a tree. Like most tallow trees, it attained a gnarled, useless shape and then was cut down because it was in the way. The stump rose a foot above the ground, a hunk of wood full of life and waiting to burst to forth in the right moment of time.

  So it grew again, sending up a ring of shoots around the edge of the trunk. The roots feeding those little green branches ran deep and the tree grew into a tangled mess, promising to become a piece of shrubbery of ridiculous proportions.

  It was cut down again come fall, but this time the tree was drilled, doused with oil, and burned black. The deep running roots died and the stump was nothing but a charred piece of lumber firmly planted in the ground. Fall passed and the rain of winter tumbled on the blackened earth. But before autumn ended, a seed had fallen at the base of the burnt stump.

  Then spring came: that time of year when the world wakes up again. Flowers that were cocooned the winter long broke out of their prisons. The seed that had been buried  now felt the golden warmth of the sun and sent out a slip of root. Then a little tree pushed up out of the earth. First one and then another set of leaves unfurled themselves. Life was born where a season ago life had died.