I was seventy-seven come August,
I shall shortly be losing my bloom;
I’ve experienced zephyr and raw gust
And (symbolical) flood and simoom.
When you come to this time of abatement,
To this passing from Summer to Fall,
It is manners to issue a statement
As to what you got out of it all.
So I’ll say, though reflection unnerves me
And pronouncements I dodge as I can
That I think (if my memory serves me)
There was nothing more fun than a man!
“In my country,” he said in a soft, steady voice, “they used to burn widows to death on their husbands’ funeral pyres.”
“Used to is the operative word, I hope,” she answered lightly, masking the chill his comment sent through her.