Rose Mary
What will I miss most about life
when furnace fire darkens down
behind my lidded eyes?
Will I miss most
those rose water dawns of spring,
bright fresh mid-summer mornings,
late lazy autumnal afternoons?
Or blazing rouge sunsets
with evenings of bejeweled
purple sky and cold weather warmth
of long dark winter nights?
What will I miss most about life?
The music or the musician
the actor or the play
the painting or the artist
the sculptor or the clay?
A scent of dew after rain,
touch of your hand upon my neck
bread and wine of the host?
Oh!
I know well
what I will miss most.
When all else is done.
That would be you, mommy
And dreams.
What will I miss most about life
when furnace fire darkens down
behind my lidded eyes?
Will I miss most
those rose water dawns of spring,
bright fresh mid-summer mornings,
late lazy autumnal afternoons?
Or blazing rouge sunsets
with evenings of bejeweled
purple sky and cold weather warmth
of long dark winter nights?
What will I miss most about life?
The music or the musician
the actor or the play
the painting or the artist
the sculptor or the clay?
A scent of dew after rain,
touch of your hand upon my neck
bread and wine of the host?
Oh!
I know well
what I will miss most.
When all else is done.
That would be you, mommy
And dreams.
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