To Waken an Old Lady

Old age is a kind of

winter,

a mere waiting

for spring.

Every year

new leaves come

from the quaking elm.

But the old lady

not so lucky.

The branches

are bare

dragging on the ground.

Yet she speaks

of sunshine,

of gardens

and of roses.

What are the – weary

waiting, what that may have come?

• William Carlos Williams