Perched atop a Giant Sequoia

Sitting atop a giant sequoia waiting to be rescued, I ponder Heather's idea of surrendering something and shedding my skin. A perfect place of solitude in which to write, but I have no computer, no pen or paper. Surely I'll be the last to arrive for the gala performance. Perhaps a short poem will suffice to get me on the Serpentine Road.


I count the me's
that I have been
since I began,
Remembering the seven (so-called) ages of a man

For women, though,
there must be more
or I, at least,
am rare,
for me's there've been beyond a count
that I would care to share.

The old me is disolving
swept away
like falling rain.
What hurts the most,
I liked her best.
Will part of her remain?