see myself staggering through deep snow lugging blocks of wood yesterday an old man almost falling from bodily weakness - look down on myself from above then front and both sides white hair - wrinkled face and hands it's really not very surprising that love spoken by my voice should be when I am listening ridiculous yet there it is a foolish old man with brain on fire stumbling through the snow - the loss of love that comes to mean more than the love itself and how explain that? - a still pool in the forest that has ceased to reflect anything except the past - remains a sort of half-love that is akin to kindness and I am angry remembering remembering the song of flesh to flesh and bone to bone the loss is better Beyond Remembering - The collected poems of Al Purdy.