No Flowers On Sunday

The Mass has come upon me by surprise.
To God, again? We had one, just last week.
The Highest walks among us in disguise
on sale from an invisible boutique.
“No flowers sold on Sunday.” I have missed
appointments never made, so never kept.
Although the ringing’s stopped, my ears persist
to hear all of Creation’s call, except.
A flower in a pot commits no sin;
restraint absolves the captive of her cage.
We go without, and hide away within,
and concentrate remembrance as we age.
The willow weeps until its sorrows cease;
a rose arose; a lily grew for peace.