As you grow older, it gets colder. 
You see through things.
I'm looking through the trees,

their torn and thinning leaves, 
to where chill blue water
is roughened by wind.

Day by day the scene opens, 
enlarges, rips of space 
appear where full branches

used to snug the view.
Soon it will be wide, stripped, 
entirely unobstructed:

I'll see right through
the twining waves, to
the white horizon, to the place

where the North begins. 
Magnificent! I'll be thinking 
while my eyeballs freeze.


 =Tansy Mattingly