Altitudes

Who knows what altitudes I might have climbed.
When I was just a child, our treehouse sat
On branches strong and effortlessly fat,
Where we sat on the roof, and gladly rhymed
Our secret chants. The steeple bells that chimed
Urged us on higher, higher up than that.
We watched kites, moths, and rockets, then a bat
Flew through our frail arms, sudden and ill-timed.

I tried new tactics, but they never worked,
I tested theories idly, fecklessly,
I hoped good things would rise and come to me
But when things did move, they revolved and jerked
As if, insensate, they were merely irked,
And, giving up, I rolled into a tree.