Old age is
A flight of small
Cheeping birds
Skimming
Bare trees
Above a snow glaze.
Gaining and falling
They are buffeted
By a dark wind -
But what?
On harsh weedstalks
The flock has rested
The snow
Is covered with broken
seed husks
And the wind tempered
By a shrill
Piping of plenty.


“To Waken an Old Lady~ William Carlos Williams