Pale wilted flowers, all in a row,
Now bent forward, ceasing to grow.
Bloom of the faces, faded and shy,
Wavering, sighing, why oh why?
To no avail we water them still;
Tend to their needs, knowing their ills.
Up with the sunlight, down in the dark;
Is that a call? Listen! We'll hark.
Patiently waiting on life's endless time,
Succumbed with limp and withering vines.
Returning to earth, a journey proclaimed,
Elderly ladies, now merely a name.
Virginia Wilson, P.S.W.
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