Artwork flows from my old friend Ted as though
he’s years behind or hasn’t much time. I
suppose we’re all there, feeling our breath blow
from us like a last flight, then empty sky.
I keep thinking of his pastel landscape:
green sea grass stretching to unseen ocean,
distant old post rising from among blades,
a still oriole atop, no notion
of flying away. Can’t stop wondering
about that post: Cracked fragment of a pier
on a now-receded shore? Stilt daring
to support a house now lost? Brace for tiers
to view boats long gone? Whatever I see,
as all artists do, he leaves that to me.
Roger Armbrust
July 1, 2007
