On a bench in Golden Gate Park
I happily sat reading
poetry by Carl
Dennis.
In front of me was a tree
with inviting branches,
the kind I would have instantly climbed
in my youth.
All these long years later,
I pondered
how much daring I had lost.
Now it seems I’m content
to just sit
on the bench
and
write a poem
about not climbing a tree.
about not climbing a tree.
Which is exactly what I did.
And then climbed it.
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