If money grew on trees
replacing all the leaves,
turning yellow in the fall,
or not ripening at all,
littering up the ground,
slowly turning brown,
getting soggy from the rain,
and brittle by degrees,
blown into the streets,
and clogging city drains,
I could not possibly account
for all of these.
We'd all be rich, but we'd be drowned
by all the treasure on the ground:
impatient for the ripening,
exhausted by the raking,
raking, raking,
always losing a percentage to the freeze.
If money grew on trees,
be they hundred-dollar bills,
I cannot help but wonder:
would I come to dream about
that other wealth, and long forgotten hills
beyond the measure of my eyes
to count? Would I miss the leaves
that so abundantly
endow me now?
A great imaginative write. Everybody is rich yet is there peace and contentment? The third stanza gives us things to ponder about. Beautifully written and conveyed.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Losing a percentage to the freeze money would grow in trees replacing the brown leaves. An amazing poem of imagination you have shared.