I saw her again, yesterday.

She was thinner, and her lovely eyes were crumpled like violets.

I think she wanted to cry, but I'm not sure.

.

Her hands were clasped. She walked from one end of the rose garden

To the other, still and small and glass-clear. So quiet her blossom bud mouth, so achingly silent her small white teeth

Which, they say, used to burst through with sweet laugh and laugh.

They are in hiding now.

.

Sometimes she takes the roses and

As if in a daze, twists them into the copper plaits through her hair – thorns, too, though the ruby drip-drips through her long fingers.

.

She was a maid in the tower, her hands filled

With flowers, plump-pucker-full, Jessamine bloom and orange lily.

And her sleep was so golden it was red blazing

And so silver it was white

And one hundred years is a long, long time.

.

She's mad, they say.

I think she is just very sad

And remembering.