William Packard, my creative mentor,
often lamented to his poetry
classes how Manhattan’s night sky tortured
artists: grazing herds of stars fallen prey
to those two voracious wolves—smog and lights.
Through years of walking Greenwich Village streets
or Washington Square Park, we’d cherish nights
when Venus peeked through. Seldom we’d just greet
the moon. Once, through winter’s bitter cold, I
limped lonely past NYU’s library,
turned on LaGuardia, looked up and sighed,
“Oh, my. Hello.” Orion’s glow carried
clear and bright as lovers’ eyes down to mine.
I felt caressed, warmed, lost in the divine.
Roger Armbrust
July 16, 2007
