Oh, lovely is the rose you sent- so kind…
I reach for her with cold and withered 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, withdraws, as falls the fading light.
She’s given up her rouge and red attire
so 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.