Sixty-Two

Not fit enough to wander the wild woods
or separate my wouldn’ts from my shoulds,
what can I say?

Not spry enough to scamper on a deck
or fend a tall sloop from a leeward wreck,
I steer my way.

No longer lean or lithe enough to climb
a groaning glacier out in Mountain Time,
here I shall stay.

So: on the closely-cropped alfalfa fields
that my Creator in his bounty yields
I stack my hay.

Timothy Murphy

Next
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE

Give the National Endowment for the Arts Back to the Public

Michael Astrue

For decades, Americans have become increasingly alienated from the American arts establishment. The main source for their…

Jane Austen Against the Smartphone

John Byron Kuhner

On this day in 1813, England’s most beloved novel was published. Pride and Prejudice has become the…

Unseen Skies

John Wilson

If you have been following this column for a while, you know I love the very idea…