The Thinking Sapling

The pond is clear; the grass is green.
At the meadow’s edge, flowers are seen.
They grew and bloomed where the gardener sowed.
The ownership and pride were his alone.

Children wandered to and fro.
“Don’t pick the flowers,” the gardener told.
Yet those words flew overhead
as they picked their favourites from the flower bed.

The gardener returned to a torn-up flower bed.
He muttered and walked into his tool shed.
From wood and nails, he made a sign.
“Don’t pick the flowers,” it said with pride.

The gardener found his garden more empty.
He muttered and turned with a heart that’s heavy.
Brick by brick, he laid a wall.
“They can’t possibly climb a wall so tall!”

The children came back the very next day,
They tried to climb, but were turned away.
The gardener laughed as they complained,
He stood his ground: “The wall remains.”

With a smug look, he went to the store.
He pointed at the bricks and asked for more.
Passing the flowers, he heightened the walls.
“If they climb, I hope they fall!”

The children didn’t come, but even still
He must be ready for when they will.
The walls must grow ever taller.
And, brick by brick, the shadow grew longer.

The children were amazed at the sight.
of a wall that stretched so tall in height.
They then shrugged, “The man’s insane.”
They forsaken the flowers and resumed their day.

The gardener sat by the pond.
The sun’s beneath the wall’s horizon.
In peace, alone at last, he sighed
“I’m proud to have a wall so high.”

The pond is clear; the grass is green.
At the meadow’s edge, a wall is seen.
Brick by brick, the wall has grown.
The ownership and pride were his alone.

At those edges where flowers lie,
under shadow where love had died.
Without sun or water, at last they shrivel.
In a world that cared for them so little.