The Withered, Old Stick (love poem)


In my garden, there was a withered, old stick.
It was a beautiful flower, before it got sick.
I tried to pluck it but, with a defiant stance,
My wife said, “Don’t, honey. Give it a chance.”

Many months passed and the stick didn’t grow.
It just stood there laughing at me and my hoe.
(A gardening tool, not my wife. Come on!) 
But I kept my word and left the old stick alone.
A full year passed and it still hadn’t grown.

Then one morning while pruning a plant nearby,
Something green to my right attracted my eye.
A delicate bud had come up through the earth.
The old stick was not dead! It was a rebirth!

All that time, my wife never once gave up hope.
I called her to see it, though I felt like a dope.
I should have known she was right – for, you see,
Long, long ago, she did the same thing with me.

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