Poetry_Rosemary

        She said   upon her leaving: "Please
                Please, when I am gone
            and these flowers    be but weeping

        Take them in your hand
                and not to the garbage
         but to a meadow, bring them.

         I came not from the city
                  I go not to the city
         These flowers   be but the same."

                  *          *          *

        Twilight ablazened   pinks and blues
               The moon shone   almost full
       By a river's breeze
                beneath a silent tree
          That held prayer the motion
                of its canopy leaves

       I buried the flowers
                of my Scottish Maiden.

                      *          *          *

      Nearby, a park filled circus
                rowdy clowned and mimed commotion
         Children's laughs and stringed balloons
                Patched a quilt of Sunday music:

      I pressed full the flowers in soft tall grass
                They lay in a whisper
                         like white moon cloth
        Spread precious upon waves of green
                 I stole away like a child with a secret...

      This day was Rosemary
                 Though few would know it.