Pulling a Stump

"Pulling a Stump" was first written in March. The idea, in the beginning, was to capture the perpetual existence of the tree - the stump. Perhaps it remains only in spirit or in memory, but that is enough. The tree persists nonetheless; hence the comparison in the first stanza, "The old stump... stands out/like a scar in the unplowed field." Like a scar, which reminds us of an event in the distant past - a pain, even - the cleft in the dirt left by the uprooted stump reminds the reader of the tree. As the scar continues to remind the bearer of a fleeting moment of the past, allowing that moment to replay over and over in the mind, the fissure reminds us of the tree. In that vein the tree continues to exist, its memory perpetuating in our minds, allowing the tree to transcend its own being - the temporality of the world - and in a sense become eternal.

PULLING A STUMP

The old stump, a black thing
with roots stretching
deep into the earth, stands out
like a scar in the unplowed field.
Today, Father and I go into
the field to pull it.

We carry shovels and pickaxes,
hopes to sever the roots
of the nourishing dirt -
to break the flat top into bits
of dead-gray wood.

My axe breaks it in two,
and with a few more swings,
to pieces of earthy mulch.

Next come the shovels.
We heave them into the dirt,
splitting the roots
near the base.
I push the shovel head
beneath the broken roots,
and we lift the stump
bottom-up from the ground.

We drop it into the bed
of Father's pick-up
and drive it off the field.

All that is left is a fissure
in the earth,
where next year dandelions
will flower out,
reminding us of a tree uprooted.