How can I rest in the days of my slowness?
I've become a strange piece of flesh,
Nervous and cold, bird-furtive, whiskery,
With a cheek soft as a hound's ear.
What's left is light as a seed;
I need an old crone's knowing.

"Meditations of an Old Woman: First Meditation," ll. 15-21 - Words for the Wind (1958)