As far from myself as ever

 

It's actually the winter of my seventy-third year,  but this poem from Merwin works:

In the Winter of My Thirty-Eighth Year

BY W. S. MERWIN

It sounds unconvincing to say When I was young

Though I have long wondered what it would be like

To be me now

No older at all it seems from here

As far from myself as ever

 

Walking in fog and rain and seeing nothing

I imagine all the clocks have died in the night

Now no one is looking I could choose my age

It would be younger I suppose so I am older

It is there at hand I could take it

Except for the things I think I would do differently

They keep coming between they are what I am

They have taught me little I did not know when I was young

 

There is nothing wrong with my age now probably

It is how I have come to it

Like a thing I kept putting off as I did my youth

 

There is nothing the matter with speech

Just because it lent itself

To my uses

 

Of course there is nothing the matter with the stars

It is my emptiness among them

While they drift farther away in the invisible morning

 

W. S. Merwin, "In the Winter of my Thirty-Eighth Year" Copyright © 1993 by W.S. Merwin, reprinted with permission of The Wylie Agency LLC.

and this, from Ceci Turner

 

Winter Trees

BY WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

All the complicated details

of the attiring and

the disattiring are completed!

A liquid moon

moves gently among

the long branches.

Thus having prepared their buds

against a sure winter

the wise trees

stand sleeping in the cold.