Stump

     In my front yard, there stood an old stump.  It was riddled with pill bugs and moss and all the life that had nearly ended with a chain saw.  Still, the stump had plenty of breath left in it.  For that stump which served as a home for grub and wild flowers also doubled as a stage, my stage.  I stood atop its dewy surface every morning entertaining the rush hour traffic.  Passersby waved and beeped while I sang and danced to whatever found its way into my head and feet.  That tree, the one that once gave my father endless leaves to rake and me shade to sit under during long summer days, now set the stage that watered my hopes and dreams.