Octogenarian

Thelma Phlegar

He drowses all the morning now,
His eyes set on the plum tree bough.
He sees the blossoms, only them,
A glimmering whiteness on the stem.

Here is no tree with fruit to come;
He has forgot the leaf, the plum.
Left in this sunny place alone
He takes a harvest of his own.

Drowsily now, and childishly,
He waits the changing of his tree
To stranger whiteness, depths more deep,
To one great flower whose fruit is sleep.