on this aging trunk
would settle on the spruce next door.
How my familiars would fare
in more supple, less subtle branches,
whipping in the breezes
that merely tickle me.
Wishes, like new patches
on well washed cloth,
stretch reality
beyond elastic bounds.
So, even as I creak and groan,
I thank God
that I am older than I think I am
and younger than my age.
