Now I Become Myself
A poem by May Sarton in the interim of a rather post less blog season: Now I Become Myself Now I become myself. It’s taken Time, many years and places; I have been dissolved and shaken, Worn other people’s faces, Run madly, as if Time were there, Terribly old, crying a warning, “Hurry, you will be dead before–” (What? Before you reach the morning? Or the end of the poem is clear? Or love safe in the walled city?) Now…