Old age is
a flight of small
cheeping birds
skimming
bare trees
above a snow glaze.
Gaining and failing
they are buffeted
by a dark wind --
But what?
On harsh weedstalks
the flock has rested --
the snow
is covered with broken
seed husks
and the wind tempered
with a shrill
piping of plenty.
Back to William Carlos Williams
Get a free collection of Classic Poetry ↓
To be able to leave a comment here you must be registered. Log in or Sign up.