He climbs up rhythmically
keeping his legs
within a ring of rope
like his life.
Intuition assures
the ripeness;
life-nut falls down
from the tree top.
Just a slip
will end in all end,
but practice
rarely slips.
Though the ways are hackneyed,
he’s honeyed and free
under his calluses.
Morrows and yesterdays,
he never climbs upon.
He hugs today, green and yellow
like the coconut...
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