We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.
Middle Age At forty-five, What next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, My age, still alive.
The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.
I want to apologize for plaguing you with so many telephone calls last November and December. When the 'enthusiasm' is coming on me it is accompanied by a feverish reaching out to my friends. After its over I wince and wither.
Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.