Oh, lovely is the rose you sent- so kind…
I reach for her with cold and wrinkled hands.
She is my sister in this world. I find
her gentle, fading beauty reprimands
this sullen rose who’s mostly lost her fire.
She shrinks and withers with the dimming light.
Both given up her rouge and red attire
her modesty would keep her out of sight.
But what would one expect at eighty-two:
the heart, well-hidden and nonsensical
and why would she another love pursue
forthwith or faintly be desirable?
Oh, lovely is the rose you sent. I’ve kept
her sweetness here and graciously accept.