but the other
day i was passing a certain
gate,   rain
fell(as it will

in spring)
ropes
of silver gliding from sunny
thunder into freshness

as if god’s flowers were
pulling upon bells of
gold    i looked
up

and
thought to myself   Death
and will You with
elaborate fingers possibly touch

the pink hollyhock existence whose
***** eyes look from morning till
night into the street
unchangingly    the always

old lady sitting in her
gentle window like
a reminiscence
partaken

softly    at whose gate smile
always the chosen
flowers of reminding