Like the beheaded pine, the veins and lines
Of my strength are chopped into blocks
To be used for deadly fuel.
It's true I was not growing; I had
Stopped halfway, thinking I was through
With the hardest part of aging, but
A usually bitter friend turned to ice
So hard it scorched my tips to
A crisp golden brown. Where is
My barber who so often trimmed my
Shape and made even the most dead
Things grow again? Make sure they
Pick up all the pieces of prickly skin
To make a bed for a thinning, ancient man.
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