Nervous and cold, bird-furtive

Here’s an excerpt from a long poem by Theodore Roethke:

 

from “Meditations of an Old Woman”

 

How can I rest in the days of my slowness?

I’ve become a strange piece of flesh,

Nervous and cold, bird-furtive, whiskery,

With a cheek soft as a hound’s ear.

What’s left is light as a seed;

I need an old crone’s knowing.

 

 

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