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.