And so I am getting old! Like a tree in the forest I am shedding branches and leaves, and around my feet Are enough dry twigs for three English martyrs -- And every son-of-a-bitch wants to set me on fire. . . . Not important of course. I'll have to walk out in the snow In any case. Where else is there to turn? So if you see me coming, a man made out of ice, Splintering light like rainbows at every crazed joint of my body, Better get out of the way: this black blood won't burn And the fierce acids of winter are smoking in this cold heart. Used with the permission of Copper Canyon Press, P.O. Box 271, Port Townsend, WA 98368-0271, www.cc.press.org | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PAST IS THE PRESENT by MARIANNE MOORE A SUMMER NIGHT by GEORGE WILLIAM RUSSELL THE JESTER'S SERMON by GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY JOHN CHARLES FREMONT by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER A SONG OF LABOUR; DEDICATED TO MY FELLOW-WORKERS WITH PICK AND SHOVEL by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |