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