Feeling My Age
we are words on a journey,
not the inscriptions of settled people
W. S. Merwin, "An Encampment At Morning"
I'm getting too old to be walking these woods
In winter, knees creaking like the cold trees,
Cartilage clicking like ice on brittle limbs.
Seeing my breath is to know its heave and heft
Clench in my chest, harder now to hold onto.
No sound but the soft crunch of my footfalls
On frosted leaves, the little snaps of twigs.
My life has come into such quiet everywhere
And I keep coming here for the old reasons,
Along the one old path I've worn to as far as
I dare to go alone these days and not be lost,
Still learning how to soften my passages
In still places, to never need to ask forgiveness
For my trespasses, listening for the furtive words
That have always been here just beyond my
Hearing, coming to the edge of the clearing's
Shadowed light, startling, and bounding away.
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2013-01-18 at 17:06
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