Thursday, August 20, 2015


                    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.