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