Aging

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 Forgotten. Like the plans of other mice and men My plans have gone Astray - and I have rejoiced in the most mundane.