A WITHERED woman on our street Has three small plants That she places Tenderly On her porch every morning. She goes downtown and never looks at the sky. She goes by the florist and never looks at the flowers in bloom. There is no paradox in this: @3Old age does not bring us the swift, sweeping love for a long stretch of beauty But the patient, quiet love, Made holy by the silent weeping for half-forgotten things.@1 |