Who would have thought my shrivelled heart
Could have recovered greenness? It was gone
Quite under ground, as flowers depart
To feed their mother-root when they have blown,
Where they together
All the hard weather
Dead to the world, keep house unknown.
*****
And now in age I bud again,
After so many deaths I live and write;
I once more smell the dew and rain,
And relish versing: O my only Light,
It cannot be
That I am he
On whom thy tempests fell all night.
___________________
My favorite poem about aging. Tell me who wrote this fragment of a larger piece and I'll send you a copy of Karen Baker's Vocal Exercises in Stone. (One of the lines is a give-away...)
Don't forget the Phil Goldvarg memorial at SPC tonight (25th & Q); send poems to PDQ (see previous entry); and get out your tights and your tu-tus—tomorrow we celebrate Midsummer's Night!
—Medusa (I'll bring the mead...)