She always hated gladiolas
rising out of the smelly black earth or
in nondescript plastic vases at funerals
like artificially dyed clumps of tissue
wired onto swollen pale green silk stalks.
Fascinated yet disgusted by their arrival
she studied them carefully, noting
their slow death, one bunched blossom
browning after another, just like aging
she reflected, where one ability drops off
after another. Once across a room she saw
a dried red rose, pristine coppered perfection.
She wondered what sort of ending awaited her,
then realized that romanticized musings
did not make any difference
where fate is a factor.
