after Robert Frost's Birches

When I was a boy to climb a tree
was the easiest way to unhook from sorrow—
the firm feel of wood to lean upon
and leverage for some greater height
as one goes up was sweeter
than what I’d found on common ground
searching among fallen fruits and nuts
for something that would get me so I could eat.
The sky was an inkling of some greater park
with fantastic swings and deeper pools
as the branches thinned and the wind revived.
The thrill of going higher was closer to truth
than some classroom where boys and girls played
like cheap toys and broke if handled ardently.
I preferred ardent about the sky,
and thus am here alone, just below timberline,
still climbing, my old friends like
branches suspending me as I head for heaven
which is the best place for love.