I concede to being well
past the apex of my life,
at least as measured
from time’s perspective.
Closer to the end
than the beginning,
the poet might say.
And yet, despite this uncomfortable admission,
I find I still evaluate each tree
I encounter, not according
to any biological criteria
or even from the perspective of beauty,
but rather on its ability
to support a tree house
or to be climbed.
And I wonder
at the magnificent view
that awaits the brave soul
who makes the attempt.
For while my grown-up side
advises against so rash a thing,
the twelve-year-old
who still walks by my side
knows well that looking
upon a single tree from down here
is a grim and pitiful thing
against the boundless expanse
waiting to be looked upon
from above.