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 always sitting in her

gentle window like

a reminiscence

partaken

softly       at whose gate smile

always the chosen

flowers of reminding