Library of Congress
She told me she was afraid,
afraid of growing old,
her words had little meaning,
these old words now retold.
Spoken to me in a time,
when years to come had not,
those innocent words,
only now thought.
I wonder how she has aged,
what kind of woman is she,
is she still afraid of each year past,
or does she cherish old memories like me.
I hope the years were kind to her,
that life did behold,
she told me she was afraid,
afraid of growing old.
