Ｅach day in cotton gloves, the artist works
Ｐerfecting gorgeous flowers made of silk
Ｈarmoniously hued and ever perked
Ｅternal, unlike fresh ones of their ilk
Ｍeandering back home 'midst evening gloom
Ｅncounters in a sad neglected park
Ｒetiring, non-attention seeking bloom
Ａnd feels a stirring of compassion spark
Ｌet's drop her wooly mitt and stoops to touch

Ｂeneath the leaves, dropped petals slowly fade
Ｌamenting tarnished loveliness nonesuch
Ｏbliquely for a moment two lives braid
Ｏffhand there is no purpose for a glove
Ｍortality is tantamount to love.