if there are any heavens my mother will (all by herself) have

one. It will not be a pansy heaven nor

a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but

it will be a heaven of black red roses

my father will be(deep like a rose

tall like a rose)

standing near my

swaying over her

(silent)

with eyes which are really petals and see

nothing with the face of a poet really which

is a flower and not a face with

hands

which whisper

This is my beloved my

(suddenly in sunlight

he will bow,

& the whole garden will bow)

—e.e. Cummings