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The season had come again to toil.
To turn the sands and silt and clay and loam.
To bury deep within the soil
Seeds of corn and wheat and nuts for oil.
To keep the bellies swollen at home.
Morning after morning the farmer would travel.
Laboring heavy beneath a sweltering sun.
Tilling, farrowing, ridging, digging till the day is done.
And then he stands and smiles and marvels.
Admiring the saplings, so beautiful, so young.
In a manner so shocking he came and found,
ropy branches, Thick roots, and thicker trunk,
Deeply rooted in the soil, and starving the young,
Unable to separate them from dead leaves staining the ground.
With his cutlass he sets to work
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
Branch after branch fell to the assault.
Whetstone and edge in a constant deadly embrace.
Sweat beading the ridges of foolish farmer’s face.
As arms swing back and forth, trembling, threatening to halt,
Before cruel fatigue’s ever smiling face.
At last the last branch of canopy fell.
The farmer smiled and turned to go.
But what ignorant farmer did not know;
The trunk left alive, as time would tell,
That this tree with life within it’s trunk would one day regrow