“Wasn’t it death that taught me
to stop measuring my lifespan by length,
but by width?”
— Andrea Gibson
And so here I am, sixty-seven years wide,
cradled in branches, the sky just inches away,
as if the moon had bent down
to press its cheek against mine.
A treehouse—
not a child’s wish now,
but an elder’s revelation,
a cathedral made of cedar and stars.
Each breath up here feels
borrowed from the forest’s oldest hymn,
and every creak of the wood
a reminder: this life still sings.
I count no more years,
only moments like this—
where a single second expands,
swelling with laughter, birdsong,
the smell of the forest, and possibility.
Beautiful moments surround us when we pause and look around:
moonlight filtering through the trees
like stained glass for the soul,
the hush of wind sharing secrets
with the sleeping branches,
the heartbeat of a body
still brave enough to climb.
Tonight, I do not sleep on a bed—
I sleep in wonder.
Not below the canopy, but inside it.
Not younger, not wiser—but freer.
Alive in the wide, wild now.
-Tom
Tom Cosgrove is a Boulder, Colorado civic futurist. He leads New Voice Strategies and its mission of healing divides, restoring compassion and strengthening self government.