Mirror in February

The day dawns with scent of must and rain,

Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.

Under the fading lamp, half dressed – my brain

Idling on some compulsive fantasy-

I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,

Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,

A dry downturning mouth.

It seems again that it is time to learn,

To which, for the time being, I return.

In this untiring, crumbling place of growth

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.