And so, Great Passion, I’m now convinced you
never rest, only play sly chameleon,
sometime eruptive prominence—flamed hue
like roiling spirit unfurling from sun—
sometime feigned crescent of peace, like Saturn’s
pale reflective surface, Rhea a black
lens occulting its center (how we yearn
to touch it but can’t), sometime galactic
distortion like this mirage of blue cloud
circling misty dot of light—a leaping
porpoise curling the moon. How we’ve all bowed,
feeling as though we’ve been roused from sleeping,
seeing Namib Desert’s towering dunes,
violent winds crowning them with lagoons.
Roger Armbrust
July 29, 2008
