ON BEING OLD IN WINTER

We’re a little past the middle now

of the stricken knee of winter, stiff,

but still operative to shift about

in the cold sunlight—but let us sit—

if we begin now, the crossword will be done

by dusk, when the punctual deer come

for the last seeds in the birdfeeders. Meanwhile

we are pleased that the drip-drip retreat

of the icicles up the eaves has begun,

and that the tic-toc of the tall clock in the hall

measures the time to another spring

we hope to see, faithfully,

by seconds and by millimeters.

Myron Ernst has had poems published in a variety of journals, including Chicago Review, Hayden's Ferry Review, Hollins Critic, Hopkins Review, South Carolina Review, Tar River Poetry, Texas Review, and West Branch.