The Giving Tree

When we were just young and carefree,

There was no ending we could foresee;

We’d eat apples, and swing,

And see what we could wring
As gifts from the giving tree.

We chopped it up, went on a spree—

And a lot ended up as debris;

With replacements withdrawn,

What we needed was gone:

The stuff of the giving tree.

At the end of our tale we might see

A meaning for you and for me,

And wind up admitting

We’re old, and we’re sitting

On the stump of the giving tree.