That dense fog I'd been groping through, cursing
at every tentative step I took, lifted
at least for an instant so that I could glimpse
on every side the dangerous chasms, worse
than anything I had imagined. Then, at some slight
shift in the wind, it closed in again, thick
as ever and leaving me worse off than before.
It was no dream but the waking truth of aging,
common to everyone, the depressing secret
nobody tells us, not even our parents--
out of kindness, perhaps, for they know that sooner or later
we each come to this place and learn for ourselves.
[David R. Slavitt, 'Fog', from The Seven Deadly Sins and Other Poems]