All Nonfiction
- Bullying
- Books
- Academic
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Heroes
- Interviews
- Memoir
- Personal Experience
- Sports
- Travel & Culture
All Opinions
- Bullying
- Current Events / Politics
- Discrimination
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Environment
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
All Hot Topics
- Bullying
- Community Service
- Environment
- Health
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
- Back
Summer Guide
- Program Links
- Program Reviews
- Back
College Guide
- College Links
- College Reviews
- College Essays
- College Articles
- Back
An Underappreciated Sapling
Every morning, I gaze around
At my enviable surroundings.
The majestic trees with their emerald leaves,
Strong, thick branches unmoved by the amicable breeze,
Buds soaked with violet, transforming elegantly
Into cloud-white petals.
And everyday, I am crushed completely
By the fact
That I am not worthy of a presence in this garden.
I sit, ashamed,
Hundreds of feet, or so it seems,
From the arched tips
Of the soft and vibrant hands
Of healthy, yellow-speckled leaves,
Heartily spewing from the narrow peaks
Of honey brown branches,
Branches that escalate quickly
Into solid, round arms,
Arms that lead the way
To the brazen, proud trunk,
Wrinkly and rough,
Of every tree in this garden,
Every tree but me.
And I look down at myself,
Although there’s not much to see,
And sigh at my peeling skin,
Frown at the brevity of my trunk,
And almost laugh at the weak composure
Of my stringy, pathetic arms,
Incapable of summoning
Even the skimpiest of leaves
From their puny growth.
And I look,
Every day,
Morning after morning,
Sunrise after sunrise,
Asking myself what right do I have
To receive the same sunlight
As those magnificent trees in the garden,
When I myself am so unworthy
And so unimpressive?
What right do I have
To absorb those covetable rays,
And directly impinge
On the immortal growth
Of my more deserving counterparts,
Knowing entirely
That no matter how much sunlight,
No matter how much water I recieve,
No matter how much I beg,
Plead,
And cry,
No new growth will appease me?
Yet for some reason,
Every day,
I look out,
Admiringly,
Jealously,
Angrily,
At the immeasurable beauty of the garden.
And on one such day,
As I begin my daily routine
Of pining over my modest roots,
A new sight emerges,
Different
From the constant musical chatter of the birds,
From the pretentious buzz of the bumblebees,
From the disruptive hum of the insects
That defile our leaves.
Duller, somehow,
Less authoritative in presence,
As if by sound only
It is not worthy of entering our garden.
A sun-soaked red,
Perhaps never once vivid,
And certainly never to be again,
Enters my field of vision.
Familiar dried dirt,
Clouding its surface
With the apparent permanence
Of the charred edges of a burnt cookie,
Permeates the vehicle,
A physical mark
Of its disrepair.
In other words, it is
Ordinary.
Unimpressive.
Unmajestic, outdated, irrelevant.
The man who steps out of the car
Is equally unimposing,
His stature small but broad,
His oversized cowboy hat hanging haphazardly
By an unmatching cord on his neck,
As there’s no need for it
In the shade of the grandiose trees.
His boots are as dusty and uninteresting
As his entire unexpected appearance in our garden.
I watch as his boots step closer,
See the deep and unforgiving marks
They leave on the wet dirt
Not nearly far enough away from me
And think of how easily
Such dull and unexciting boots
Worn by such a dull and unexciting man
Could crush me completely,
Trample me without a second thought.
One, two, three dusty steps and all would be over.
It could be that easy,
I think to myself.
He wouldn’t even see me,
I realize in a fright.
It would be like I was never here.
No more stingy rays of sunlight
Would waste their precious energy on me,
No more elusive raindrops
Would be forced to whisper their
Covetable yet tired life-bringing secrets to me
As they trickle down the gluttonous branches
Of the trees more important than I
To land on my unappreciative, unworthy face.
With three steps, my garden
Would become
Their garden.
His steps are louder now,
His distance narrowing like the sun’s rays on the horizon.
He doesn’t see me,
I think.
He doesn’t see me,
I realize hopelessly,
He doesn’t see me,
I repeat as his footsteps stop,
Not more than a yard away from me, and
Halt their dirge.
I barely understand why,
Until I hear him exhale,
With unbelievable awe and wonder,
“What do we have here?”
Two hands reach down and caress my barren branches.
His hands graze my trunk
And to both of our astonishment,
It is surprisingly sturdy.
Similar Articles
JOIN THE DISCUSSION
This article has 0 comments.
This piece pushes the hatred and lack of appreciation that some teenagers face with regards to their body and appearance into the life of an insecure tree. At the end of this piece, the sapling is pleasantly surprised that the farmer is attracted to him as opposed to the other trees; this shows that what the tree himself sees as flaws are in fact appreciated by the farmer, which can transfer to real people, too. Additionally, he is also reassured that his appearance and body aren't as weak as he thought they were, showing that teenagers' views of themselves are often harsher than reality.