The mayor, I think, had it trucked in—this stump
Of an ancient olive tree. The muscled torso
In torsion like some wrestling Greek hero’s
Statue found without its limbs—a lump
Of twisted xylem. For years I thought it dead—
Why had they planted a dead stump? The daisies
Sprang up around it in sunny waves. Taxis
Flowed on either side of the traffic island
It was marooned on like a shipwrecked mast.
And then, last spring, a crown of pale green shoots
Came arrowing out of it—I was flabbergasted,
It seemed a miracle! Now it’s going gangbusters,
Branches in all directions. It’s like the bed
The hero came home to, that he’d built himself,
And his wife had wept for years on like a life raft,
And the wonder wasn’t that it was not moved—
(An inside joke)—but that it was still alive.

Georges Braque, Olive Trees, oil on canvas, 1907. Artwork by Georges Braque on WikiArt (public domain).