Ode to Mrs. Miller

I did not know how brave she was--
Ninety-two and I, seventy less,
So young that old age
Was textbook stuff:
A fact of life,
But not mine.

I was alive and free
To stride the world,
A colossus of youth--
Whereas she had ate
Almost a century.
And all her friends
And all her family
Lay dead somewhere--
Except in her mind,
Still crisp, poignant
In its memories
Of a wealthy husband,
A daughter dead young.
Her own youth and beauty
Remaining lonely in a
Silver-framed photo.

She never complained,
This old lady--
Never once did I hear
Lamentations, a bewailing
For the richness of life:
The ripe fullness she once felt
As a wife, a mother, a woman
Of grace and beauty.

She lived alone
In a basement flat,
Barely five feet tall--
Yet I’ve never known
Any being braver--
Yet it is only now,
When I am become old,
I envy such courage.