When I am bent with the vintage of the years
A stick-man having lived my dissipation through
I will be as the bough of an ancient tree.
What once was a twig
Will resemble a branch of an Old Sequoia.
I will stand tall and straight if only in my mind
My grandfather's mole in mind and the wreckage of
Years past covered with moss and tears and blessedly
Like the plans of other mice and men
My plans have gone
Astray - and
I have rejoiced in the most mundane.