Till life retires me I won’t retire
all cries to uncles stalled
And won’t slow down or buy the farm
till Abraham has called

My will as though a five-year-olds
wild and dancing free
Those trees of life I’ve yet to climb
still calling out to me

The view much clearer though ladder worn
from high atop myself
With passions free and burning hot
each thought more deeply felt

Somewhere a bugle waits for me
an Angel standing by
To blow my name when time abates
—upon whose wings I’ll fly

(Beaupre: June, 2022)