Aging

Last week, a year yet again,
She's old, and her doctor
Says she weighs too much.
Thank you! For, bitter wine
Will send time backwards, flowing
And she remembers before.
And all, it is as it should be.

She sits upon a wooden chair
Whilst a Golden Sunbeam
Catches only dust and memories,
As it misses her hair, and all
And all is as it should be.