Arrives the Snow

(a cento poem...)


Had we but world enough, and time,
I will listen to what you say.
I wandered lonely as a cloud,
So nature deals with us and takes us away.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields,
The troubled sky reveals the grief it feels.

When you see me sitting quietly,
My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains.
I'm the same person I was back then,
Which is no more than what is false and vain.

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
And miles to go before I sleep,
I have a rendezvous with Death;
God knows were better to be deep.

-Lisa Rodenberry 2/14/14