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