a lifetime is short
yet until the last person
with memory of us passes
we continue to live on
or perhaps if objects were not inanimate
i love the patina of old things
the natural sheen of wood polished by touch
old correspondence
a button box whispering female secrets
the foxed mirror with endless reflections of fading beauty
personally
and to my detriment
I have difficulties
coming to terms with the ageing process
little girls
like flowers
grow up
bloom
fade
and slowly wilt