A vista of rain soaked drooping garden roses brings to mind the days I planted them, with the hope or maybe it was a promise, they would rise and flourish. The silver droplets ceasing, blurring my sight, as if my aging orbs are not the reason I cannot see clearly through the glass. “The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes”, distorts the inspiration I have enjoyed these many years. Some sunny day heat may eradicate the jaundiced smudges, and I have grown patient in my years, and wait.
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Prosery: T.S. Eliot and J. Alfred Prufrock
The Bag Lady 
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