[to Gabriel Faure]
do they remember their rose names or do
they dream only in rose itself, no particular rose
colour all plausible rose colours or of a shifting of petals
a slanting of rains almost sighed for
a corral of petals shaded by green
that comes and goes, again or is
shattered by unexpected winds or
are they ever expected or do they dream
of a world where winds are soft and peach
falls silently peachlike on the ground before time lapsed and
water like rose water lovely shining,
never an enemy, is dripping from the eaves of
leaves and always.
in what language do they dream
in the various tea rose margins of a sleep
allowed by God, so long as to be inconceivable
so beautiful as to have no latitude at all
and of a sheen beyond the earth-bound insignias
of what can be seen
of deep fuchsia or pale yellow or marvel of
marvels, magenta obliquely
Spring- the last of the ivory, the
light pink in a light chagrined with no sunrise
to call its own but only the rose-lights haloed, fawn-
in sweeter snows unmelting
and are their shadows flowering too
and do they ever awake
mary angela douglas 27 28, september 2013
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