For Jane

I know that rarity precedes extinction, Like that of the purple orchid in my garden, Whose sudden disappearance rattled me. Jane, in her way, is also beautiful. And therefore near extinction, I suppose. She is certainly rare and fragile of  bone. She insists she is dying, day by dubious day, And spends her evenings looking at photographs Of  her mother, who never believed in love. Rare Jane, I worship you. But I can’t deny You access to the endless With its river of cold stars.