The little tree

In a sun scorched land far away,
There were trees, little trees
Withered, sprangly, and dearth.
There were no big trees in this earth.
You see, the rain did not come nor did the rivers run free.
Only Desert was as far as one could see.
Some plants strived with all their strength and might to grow,
Others gave up and their limbs had a bow.
You could hear others complain, wine, or beg.
“Woe is me as anyone could see.”
But whether they strived, quit, or wined
None grew any more than the other, they were all in a bind.
They were all withered, sprangly, and dearth

One day a farmer came
He took one of the trees
So withered, sprangly, and dearth.
Which one I don’t know
For they all looked the same.
And so He took the plant gently away
Delivering it from its woe
And brought it to a meadow
And placed it near a stream
It was a place of beauty,
Where the sun would beam,
And sweetly down, the rain would come.
In this place, this little tree,
Though withered, sprangly, and dearth,
Grew roots that went deep and deep into the earth.
It grew and grew,
And was not little any more.
And season after season much fruit did it bore.

This little tree became strong,
And though it was once withered
Its leaf withered no more.