Love, I’ve read Amy Fusselman’s memoir
fragment in NYT’s “Lives” column, and
something’s changed, like when oxygen and our
lungs live as one. She writes of human hands,
how they kill spirit and heal spirit. She
does this with simple gestures, phrases small
and powerful, like child’s hand waving free
of fear, or palms pressed in prayer—silent call
to the Great All. She doesn’t say this. I
do because of what she’s said, her clear voice
urging me to answer. January
8, rainy morning. I welcome my choice
to keep playing Christmas carols, hearing
Julie Andrews. The blesséd angels sing.
Roger Armbrust
January 8, 2008
from "oh, touch me there: love sonnets"
published by Parkhurst Brothers Publishers
