One job I wouldn’t want is a tree climber,
A fellow with a buzz-saw lopping branches;
To be instead a lowly sonnet rhymer
At least the odds for longer life enhances
If not a shot at immortality;
Yet since the paper that I write on’s made
From pulp, I owe that climber’s industry
My gratitude and offer this in trade—
A wispy token of my high esteem
In honor of his daring bravery;
Reality’s his venue; mine is dream,
And yet for both, the medium’s a tree.
Although he’ll never see this feat of rhyme,
I wish him well in his diurnal climb.
*
