JUST a few of the roses we gathered from the
Isar
Are fallen,
and their mauve-red petals on the cloth
Float like boats on a river,
while other
Roses
are ready to fall, reluctant and loth.
She laughs at me across the table, saying
I am beautiful. I look at the
rumpled young roses
And suddenly realise, in them as in
me,
How lovely the
present is that this day discloses.