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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.
--
"Meditations of an Old Woman: First Meditation," ll. 15-21

 

Theodore Roethke

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Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy!
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