Mirror in February

Poem By Thomas Kinsella

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,
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 wakening 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.

Comments about Mirror in February

Yes. Time is telling. But I think the more time we gain is a bliss; for each age has its own pleasures. Getting old is natural and can be enjoyable where there is much time to think and wisdom to cherish. Deep thinking and far contemplation can make double of our pleasures of old ages. It is a nice poem with beautiful images.
Aging. The steady drip-drip-drip of deterioration in sage of skin and dulling of eyes. But we all, man or woman, continue to dress ourselves in our armor to face the day.
Verily poetic, in every stay, of depth and breadth! Nice poem, for sure! :)
and how should the flesh not quail, that span for span...
This poem has such deep meaninigful pauses and switches of emphasis ans theme


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