Immortal Bouquet


The withered arm of Time has plucked the blooms
That crowned the brow of Love and rent the ring
Of roses round Love s head. Decay consumes
The petals. Powdered grey flecks everything.
Thus shorn of blossoms, Love s skull draws
Its scalp in wrinkles that retract
And tighten. The first of all Time s laws
Would seem the last as well: the fatal fact
That life means death. Yet death becomes rebirth:
Love s phantom sheds its flesh and rides the sky.
Below, its skeleton sinks deep in earth,
The gnarled old arm of Time grasps high
But cannot seize the cloud as it encloses
In silken mist& gold-ruby roses.
08-06-85

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