Nature is a pixie
Unworthy to be sung,
Can it be I’m sixty,
I who was so young?

Over generous hearted,
She heaped me full of years,
Careless if I carted
Bellylaughs or tears.

Though spring is hers for poets
With hopes too high to climb,
I’m strutting up the summit
On crutches made of rhyme.

© 2011