Old Age Is Not For Jessies
S
Sheena Blackhall
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Violets are best picked young
She no longer bends to pluck flowers
She settles for shop-bought lilies
Cut in anonymous greenhouses
Sometimes her eyes flash
Like stirred ashes. A memory
Rises like a flame
Then collapses into the ruin of her present
She dresses slowly, wishing that
She could vomit up Old Age like a fur ball
Death watches from her looking glass
She is no soothsayer. Cataracts obscure him
Though he is wanted, if his coming's quick
And easy
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