I am not past my peak, though elderly, infirm,
for I still can stretch my limbs and feel their power.
I extend my long fingers to stroke shoulders
strained by daily work, caressing
those who need more care than me.
Labeled an ancient lady, I do not feel my years,
though my cheeks blush pink as I don my gown
that glistens after a rain then entertains
when breezes luff my silks, scattering petals
like invitations to my spring fete. My tresses
will not hide a nest or house a fort,
but like some grand dames, I whisper
inspiration and reveal secrets of past trysts
that lingered under my leaves. Come winter,
when nor’easters blow and ice trims my skirt,
I will dream of warmer days and sleep
until I am again a flower girl
scattering blossoms for others to take.