She could not rise to stand, there,
at the restaurant. Even gripping
her cane. Age, bulk, and pain
rooted her to the armless oaken chair.

Patient companions tried their best,
with a boost. She could not budge.
I’m so sorry, she said, staring
into a thicket of helplessness.

One friend boldly approached
the bar, where sturdy young men—
Arcas Bros. Tree Service stamped
on their shirts and green caps—

had planted themselves to swig beers,
swap stories. She tapped
the shoulder of the quiet one.
“Would you be so kind…?”

He followed to their table.
“Hope I don’t smell like pine sap,”
he said, then, “Okay, up we go”
and in a split

oh breathe your breath into my book of changes

second opened his arms encircled her
ample trunk and pressing close lifted
her easily and she rose upward eyes wide
and stood shedding rings of years

what we have been, or now are,
we shall not be tomorrow.

As they shuffled out the door, to the car,
her friend asked how she was doing, now.
Wonderful, a dryad replied, moonglow
lighting her way, breeze stirring her leafy hair.

_{Note: indented lines are from Ovid’s Metamorphoses.}