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
pansy 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

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