Blue Flowers (rondeau)

 The flowers of my dreams are blue

And seem to be the ones that grew

In childhood’s garden, long ago,

Which when abandoned, left to grow,

Produced an even deeper hue

And stained with sadness all I knew

And changed the light that filtered through,

So strange notes are the ones I know,

The flowers of my dreams.

And harmony is odd, though true,

Contrived, made up in lieu

Of what is lost, yet still must show

That beauty’s blooms are tinged with woe,

Such linseed acres, not a few,

The flowers of my dreams.