Middle Age Robert Lowell Now the midwinter grind is on me, New York drills through my nerves, as I walk the chewed-up streets. At forty-five, what next, what next? At every corner, I meet my Father, my age, still alive. Father, forgive me my injuries, as I forgive those I have injured! You never climbed Mount Sion, yet left dinosaur death-steps on the crust, where I must walk.