Worn out with dreams
I strap on the snowshoes
and take to the trees with the dog
in the quiet blue dusk.
She leads the way,
blur in the blue,
running great loops in deep powder,
always returning fast from behind,
Rocketing past,
always returning,
each time a pleasant surprise;
so little comes back
when one’s growing old with his dreams.
—with a nod to Yeats' "Men Improve with the Years"
