to live in a house with rose patterned wall papers
overlooking a rose garden
and when it snows, the roses merely sparkle
not forgetting to bloom.
to drift from rose room to room
as if you were fine perfume.
the venetian blinds are pink.
the tablecloths pale green.
you play the piano and then it seems
that music blooms and remembers your name.
how when the rose gold of familiar clouds shifts
over the trees
will you explain to the neighbors
to the angels at their ease
the tint of your windows.
or how will you even care
who live, a rose, among roses
anywhere you dream this.
mary angela douglas 26 january 2015
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