Autobiography

Autobiography

When I was young I found a young tree—

A pine sapling on the side of a hill.

Fingers red from the winter chill,

I bent it back until I pulled it free,

And the roots lay bare for all to see,

But the pine survived, and it's out there still.

And such ideas were brought to mind

By the fall of a single, scrawny pine

That I bent my body back and back,

And farther yet until I heard it crack,

And like an unrolling ball of twine,

I toppled off the beaten track.

And when news came from the old town crier:

We're in the path of a deadly fire,

There was nothing new that I could learn

'Til I felt my fingers start to burn

And didn't care for their concern,

Knowing I would rise the higher.

Now far from needing clever schemes,

The Lord is my shepherd, or so it seems,

For there's nothing in my sleepy dreams

That I haven't been allowed to pluck

From a laden tree like fruit to suck—

But don't suppose I dine on luck.