by Marilyn Hacker
Someone I used to be friends with walked off with a copy of Babel-17. The fact that this poem was in it was one of my greatest regrets, that, and it was a pretty good book too.
Growing older I descend November.
The asymptotic cycle of the year
plummets to now. In crystal reveries
I pass beneath a fixed line of white trees
where dry leaves lie for footsteps to dismember.
They crackle with a muted sound like fear.
that and the wind are all that I can hear.
I ask cold air, "What is the word that frees?"
The wind says, "Change," and the white sun, "Remember."