When I was young I loved the poetry of youth The way the tourists love the vivid shrimp That children sell along the road to Buzzards Bay. I wanted heat And hard shadows before noon, Thunder at dusk, and night lizards running Across the ceiling like aimless electricity. When I was young I hated the poetry of age And had no time for cool abstractions That seemed to finger life through thick woolen mittens. But now I'm old And I wait for the hazy rime Of snow around the moon that comes When the storm breaks and the world's reborn, fresh and new. And I take comfort In the blush of ice algae pulsing through the icy eons without me Because it's the pattern -- not the parts -- that persists.
Bruce Brown
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