Monday, March 23, 2015

Our Ramparts Of Roses Fall Apart

to my sister, Sharon


STREW on her roses, roses,
  And never a spray of yew.
Matthew Arnold, Requiescat

our ramparts of roses fall apart;
loose stitching holds the petals
though it was of gold

when we were new
entirely of gold
that we played in the afternoons

that our Kingdom was roses, roses
watered by the green garden hose
by our Grandfather's kindness and

we were his roses, roses
our Grandmother's cherished, few-
and soon we will fall apart too

though I hope a long time from now

and only when the moon is
the shade of roses roses
and God plays His own hidden tune

in His own Time illuminating
our stories' forever and evers
in a Heaven of roses.

mary angela douglas 23 march 2015

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