but the other

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