Lady, your flowers have been well-kept for generations;
Blossoms have topped that stone wall many springs
And filled parlor-damp vases.
(Roses cannot clean the mildew from the spacious,
once gracious rooms.)
I have been in your parlor,
Seen polished wood
Under light straining through stained glass,
Felt leather groan as I sat,
Handled wicker and rubbed-wood chair arms.
Lady, use phantom shears on those flowers;
You are ghosts from another age
Under moss-dripping oaks
On the walk from this creaking gate.
One piece out of a collection found in the files titled variously poems.odt, poems.doc, and poems.docx
Patrick Meadows 1934 – 2017.