How tall
an aging creature like me
may keep ascending?

Asked the fine
Apple tree.

Anxious I am here,
Whining,
Atop the barest
coldest mountain.

Where the sun rarest
and just a glimpse of
his distant rays.
 
As I grow,
Seeking illusive warmth
I shall die without!

Scattering seeds
to bloom and witness failures.

I am an old apple tree
and the autumns
calling me.

Ripened thousands
healthy fruits of mine,
This parting season.

Alas!

They shall decay,
Every ample season.