I walked passed this old man of a tree,
On my way to solitude near the dells of the lake;
His stately demur jolted my gaze upward, amazed;
I stood beholding his long branchs, once strong arms;
Poised starkly, in all knowing, pronouncing:
Study and know, no matter the count,
969 were mine, and those days quickly passed.
How much is enough Methuselah?
So many days I want, before the green of my life,
Like yours, flows at last?
Dried out for years you’ve been, perhaps,
More or less, I know not.
Yet here I found you, strong, still, stark;
Seemingly dead, and yet
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