The first time I saw her, she stood graceful
as a Victorian porcelain, shy
and still at the high school party, tasteful
blue dress accenting her eyes of clear sky.
We danced. Amazed by her beauty, I sensed
irony of fragile strength in her touch,
intense intelligence in her silence.
Through those awkward months, I liked her so much,
my heartbeat dulled my head. I’d turned and she’d
vanished. Forty years have flown, yet I’ve saved
her soft smile. Last year, I learned she had died.
I’d like to go to Mayfield, find her grave,
listen and talk to her. Breathe in tranquil,
clear air. I'm praying that someday I will.
Roger Armbrust
September 11, 2007
