
In the Winter of my Thirty-Eighth Year
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What is more elemental than the passage of time on our bodies? And yet growing older (a precondition of living, after all) comes with so many torments, frictions, denials. In W.S. Merwin's "In the winter of my 38th year", the poet wrestles with his own ideas about his years, drifting through the middle-of-the-night thoughts and fantasies, searching for some 'sense' to guide him through the dark. The poem can be found in Merwin's sixth collection, The Lice.