I have dug out this small fir
these roots from earth
to carry to you
to share with you
gentle touch
of wrapping limbs
with ribbons of bright cloth
slender rain of icicles
topped with my last dollar’s compromise:
a frail and wrinkled star
cut out of a Budweiser can.
We have dressed the tree
and now undress:
You drop waitress’s skirt and cap
your thick dark hair
cascading to shoulders
like night
over slender horizon of snow.
You lift my rumpled jeans
from the floor
brush sawdust and dirt
away with care
and move my open textbook
from your side of the bed
setting it on our only chair
as a scholar genuflects to thought.
You slide under our lone cover.
Push next to me.
Our heads rest on an old coat.
We hold one another like roots.
Gaze at the tree
alight from pulse of neon
flowing through shadeless window
reflecting your deep brown eyes
falling into mine of blue.
Never mind those eyes far from us
who turned away
when we spoke of love.
(Why did they stalk to ancient altars
vowing to never forgive?)
We have this tree
this bed to bind us
with something stronger
than rings or words
from slit-eyed rabbis and priests.
Our bodies glow.
We nod in silence
our eyes aflame
blazing in our feast of lights.
Roger Armbrust
