I love such different things now I am old, Fine linens and thin china on my shelf, And silken curtains hanging fold in fold, If this be I, I do not know myself. Can this be I who was so filled with fire, So deeply and so violently attached To Life; breathless and husky with desire, Afraid that I would leave one portal latched. Can this be I? My silver maple tree Is corseted with ice and bent with sleet; I say, "This must be I," my dog knows me, But he will chase cloud-shadows down the street. |