Our Ramparts Of Roses Fall Apart (Final Version) Poem by Mary Angela Douglas

to my sister, Sharon

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STREW on her roses, roses,
And never a spray of yew.
Matthew Arnold, Requiescat
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our ramparts of roses fall apart
the dystopian worlds would say
loose stitching holds the petals in
for another day but I say
it was of gold and gold is it still

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 rosy posies
our Grandmother's cherished, few-
our Mama's full bouquet
not soon we will fall away

and then only driftingly
roses still imbued the rose of our souls, renewed

but such a long time from now

with the shades of our roses roses
happily ghosts for awhile
when God plays His own hidden tune

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

we will always bloom
with rose petaled certitude.

mary angela douglas 23 march 2015; 29 november 2023