The Treehouse

 To every man
His treehouse,
A green splice in the humping years,
Spartan with narrow cot
And prickly door.


To every man
His twilight flash
Of luminous recall
 of tiptoe years
 in leaf-stung flight;
 of days of squirm and bite
 that waved antennas through the grass;
 of nights
 when every moving thing
 was girlshaped,
 expectantly turning.


To every man
His house below
And his house above—
With perilous stairs
Between.

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