Old age, I’m told, has a discernible odor

 

Poem on my 79th Birthday

by Peter Everwine

This morning, in a jelly glass on my table,
a handful of the season's first violets—
a gift from the garden of a dear friend.
Old age, I'm told, has a discernible odor.
Who would have thought mine
would be so delicate,
so piercing sweet.