Regal, blushing toward red
Yet pale and dying,
I salute you and all your progeny
You, who by divine selection
Were fixed as seed in random earth
Rooted with iron will
So fragilely expressed
To ground, sky and rain.

You and I beat the odds.
You and I confounded the bookies.
Here we are.
I at sixty-five years
And you at six weeks,
Withered and standing both
With whatever fruit time and chance
Would let us bear.