Brevity of Life

That old beech held me high
when I was a young boy,
but with these brittle bones
I cannot climb her now,
and still she stands, breaking
through my lifetime's weather,
sturdier than ever,
her gnarled, transforming boughs
once mine, twisted skyward
with all my childish dreams;
old hands touch her bole now,
feel that numb resistance,
impervious to me,
my wise, old age to her
a mayfly existence.

     

Copyright 2009 by Roy K. Austin