Old Lady’s Moon

                                           It’s flat
                                           as the Queen Anne’s lace
                                           that Julia saved,
                                           pressed in Solomon’s Song.
                                           It’s dry,
                                           a fragrance tucked away,
                                           no longer lavender.
                                           Her moon is talc, and it sifts
                                           over roses, and those roses
                                           drift to potpourri.
                                           It’s time.
                                           The lamp’s so low
                                           no shadows bruise her now.

Photo by nousnou iwasaki on Unsplash