Frost would say it’s far from the runaway,
more the grindstone, fire and ice, the onset
by Obama seeing Clintonites sway
with misgiving, visions of her aigrette
tossed in a disused graveyard where nothing
gold can stay, while still her plowmen, working,
watch her gathering leaves, trust her knowing
the need of being versed in country things,
whispering of our singing strength. And then
a boundless moment: the lockless door pries
open revealing a hillside thaw when
the valley’s singing day, blue-butterfly
day reveals Barak hurtling to earthward,
splayed on a tree fallen across the road.
Fragmentary blue. For once, then, something.
Roger Armbrust
January 8, 2008
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