Strange things whisper on thread-bare limbs
Gnarled tree and withered leaves sighing
In the breeze
The growing season is gone and harvested
The moon a silver scythe dangling
On cumulus dream and dread
Lo — the chill shakes my bones and rattles
The wish caged in my head
Half-buried, half-alive, and barely remembered
Until summer red shakes its phoenix crown
And turns gray sadness to green delight
Ah, she laughs, that pitiless child who wanders to and fro
Why make my heart young again, although I, already old?
RED GLADIOLA 