Ne tibi supersis: 
don’t outlive yourself, 
panic or break a hip 
or spit purée at the staff 
at the end of gender, 
never a happy ender —

yet in the pastel light 
of indoors, there   is a lady 
who has distilled to love 
beyond the fall of memory.

She sits   holding hands 
with an   ancient woman 
who calls her brother and George 
as bees summarize the garden.