Becoming too old and short of breath

to climb the ladders myself any more,

the young men working outside nimbly 

spring up with growling chainsaws 

to cut down the trees and trim off

the tangled branches which were left 

for dead after the great Texas freeze 

last year in February.
 
Earlier today on the way

to the bank to withdraw money to pay

the young landscaper, I heard on NPR 

an Irish poet pray in a poem to St. Agnes 

for his words to be true, cleanly spoken,

and unadorned by the frippery of poetry.

So, I have placed no metaphor here today,

other than what each brings with us to say.

(April 9, 2022)