A poem, Mirror In February, deals with a somewhat more
recent encounter.
"The day dawns with scent of must
and rain, of open soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
Under the fading lamp, half-dressed--
my brain idling on some compulsive fantasy--
I towel my shaven lip and stop, and stare,
riveted by a dark exhausted eye, a dry down-turning mouth.
It seems again that it is time to learn,
in this untiring crumbling place of growth to which for the time
being, I return.
Now, plainly in the mirror of my soul
I read that I have looked my last on youth and little more:
for they are not made whole that reach the age of Christ.
Below my window, the awakening trees, hacked clean
for better bearing, stand defaced,
suffering their brute necessities.
And how should the flesh not quail, that span for span
is mutilated more?
In slow distaste, I fold my towel with what grace I can.
Not young, and not renewable, but man."