Muriel

Your knees ache so much

you can barely stand up;

they lock, and I lower you

down to your old blue chair.

You want to see your roses,

so I bring them to you—

showing you each bud’s opening

in hands’ slow talk-story.

Your life has reached that time

in roses when the flower is full,

so that when it is picked

the center disintegrates

and all that is left

is fragrance.

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