"Here I am, writing poems in my seventy-ninth and eightieth years, and the reason is partly because I am a foreigner in the land of old age and have tried to learn its language." With these words from the preface of her new, luminous collection, May Sarton takes on the subject of herself in old age.
Here are Sarton's observations and reflections, many of which came to her as if by magic during the small hours of the morning. Along with the daily events of writing a letter, appreciating her flowers, taking care of her cat, Pierrot, these poems wrestle with the larger questions of life and death, the difficulties and rewards of living alone. Longtime fans will find Sarton as celebratory and fresh as ever. In a few sketched lines an entire world - her world - springs into place, fully formed.
