‘Tis often that we reach the end
Of life’s short road and think
That many things have sped us by,
Faster than you could blink.
We never seem to pause and look
Down at the wheels beneath
That bore us through this hectic life,
And oft become a wreath
Of flowers wrapt in memories,
Of ivies and more such.
If e’er we stopped in reflection
We’d really find that much
Of what we’ve dragged to where we are
Upon a glance can be
Gathered into a mixed bouquet
Of what? Reality.
For these are truly nothing else
Than mine own fav’rite things,
Like wine upon a windowsill,
Or silent, golden wings
That flare from angels up on high
Above a great stone church,
Or roiling plumes of incense pine
That scent the dove’s own perch.
I see within this wild bouquet
A spattering of rain
That’s swept across some cobblestones
Or filtered through some grain
That’s growing in a sun-filled field
Somewhere beyond a summer,
When apples fall through rust-red leaves,
And splash into a river.
I pull aside a leaf of years
And see a motley cluster
Of little, warm remembrances
That I had with my mother
When she would draw me to her lap
And in the light would show
Me how the sun through prisms free
Would split the fair rainbow.
A heady group of posies bring
The thoughts I grabbed as I
Did dream and stare with wond’ring awe
At how each race did ply
His trade and culture ‘mong his friends,
Beneath a garish sun
When clouds are dry and sands are deep
And water does not run,
To places where the ice does form
And freeze the waterfalls
Into vast sheets of glitt’ring snow
That rise as great blue walls.
A single drop on marigold
Brings to my memory
The greening deeps of oceans strange
And curling waves of sea.
The more I dig into this sweet
And fragrant pile of thoughts,
The more I find the little things
That I should never ought
Have let slip by my wand’ring gaze
A-fixed to all ahead,
And ignored all the flowers that
Were blooming round instead.