The Ravages Large and Small

You’re old, dear,
when your love can no longer save you
from the ravages
large and small,
when the mushrooms in the backyard
are no longer equal to
the moss on the front walk,
when a certain dimness invades
every window
of your mind, and you only want
the old French songs,
low and slow
as beef stew with carrots or
the last wash of sun
in the bottom of your cup
as you put it away singing —
you, the cup,
or both.

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