Aching, leaden arms, breath hissing,
Climbing up a willow tree,
Safety cinch and ladder missing—
Up into the canopy.
Lacerated—scratched and panting,
Never seemed this hard before,
Insufficient wind for ranting—
Face it chum—you’re sixty-four.
Here’s the prize, a leaf-framed dappling
View a Druid never crowned—
You were scarce a whip-thin sapling
When I stuck you in the ground!