Donald Hall Poems
|1.||Her Long Illness||4/24/2015|
|2.||The Seventh Inning||10/5/2015|
|5.||The Painted Bed||3/16/2012|
|7.||Ox Cart Man||3/16/2012|
|11.||The Alligator Bride||1/3/2003|
|12.||Mount Kearsarge Shines||1/3/2003|
|13.||Je Suis Une Table||1/3/2003|
|15.||Christmas Party At The South Danbury Church||1/3/2003|
|17.||The Man In The Dead Machine||1/3/2003|
|20.||An Old Life||1/3/2003|
|21.||Name Of Horses||1/3/2003|
To grow old is to lose everything.
Aging, everybody knows it.
Even when we are young,
we glimpse it sometimes, and nod our heads
when a grandfather dies.
Then we row for years on the midsummer
pond, ignorant and content. But a marriage,
that began without harm, scatters
into debris on the shore,
and a friend from school drops
cold on a rocky strand.
If a new love carries us
past middle age, our wife will die
at her strongest and most beautiful.
New women come and go. All go.
The pretty lover who announces
that she is temporary
An Old Life
Snow fell in the night.
At five-fifteen I woke to a bluish
mounded softness where
the Honda was. Cat fed and coffee made,
I broomed snow off the car
and drove to the Kearsarge Mini-Mart
before Amy opened
to yank my Globe out of the bundle.
Back, I set my cup of coffee