As Robert rode down his birch trees
far in his northern Yankee land
climbing, then bending them with ease
their stance no longer straight and bland

Upon a time and place so far away
I have done so, too, with pine saplings
on a hot and sunny summer day
beneath shade enhanced by sol's dapplings

Sometimes not riding them to ground
just far enough to reach another
thus propelling self all around
from one pine to its nearest brother

Down here the soil? Red not black
as I expect it was for him
I often think of going back
before the path becomes too dim

Might we two old swingers meet some day?
I'd like to think we may, perhaps
in a place I hope to one day stay
and shake hands still sticky from trees' saps