The late Donald Justice was a master of short, traditional verse. He’s got two terrific little ones on men (one of my favorite subjects). At almost 38, both ring true.
Men at Thirty
Thirty today, I saw The trees flare briefly like The candles upon a cake As the sun went down the sky, A momentary flash Yet there was time to wish Before the break light could die If I had known what to wish As once I must have known Bending above the clean candlelit tablecloth To blow them out with a breath
Men at Forty
Men at fortyLearn to close softlythe doors to rooms they will not becoming back to
Nice, Hugo. for some reason, i’m reminded of this Frost poem i came across the other night:
A Patch of Old Snow
There’s a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.
It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I’ve forgotten–
If I ever read it.
Bingo, Annie, that’s good.