Choking dust encircles my head

Creeps alongside my bed

Like so many forgotten chores

When life has opened other doors

Yet times await in this short life

Places, sites, or smells delight

My fancies for a lack of toil

Instead to be on peaceful soil

Where no one asks for sweet perfume

Nor hedges straight and in full bloom

They care not for a new prediction

On yet another health affliction

And thus I seek new ways to feed

My already weakened memory

Of he who used to share my bed

Since all that’s left is in my head

—Victoria Emmons, June 2012