Oh, those old mysteries of lost childhood:
icebox, ice pic with shards glinting in sun,
gray cloudy days with rain dripping from eaves,
the blossoms of an apple tree in spring.
Poetry breathed in childhood at spry three
beside brilliant awakening of language
where the sound of words became enchanting:
robin, sparrow, colander, fork, hammer.
At seventy, poetry is poignant,
burdened with rue and refulgent wisdom.
Snowflakes drifting desultory in wind
dance with unpredictable dalliance
while one is more aware of mortal clay
with each rousing dawn of cloudy day.