Belovéd, why do we care so for them,
how they spread pleated trunks like darkened gowns
at water’s surface, rising bodies trim
and poised as goddesses, arms hanging down
in legions of emerald fabric, forms
mirrored by sunlight in rippling, surreal
memory across Lake Bradford? A storm
approaches off to the south. It will steal
all peace from us. Yet we stay on, stubborn
as faithful sun awaiting marauding
thunderheads. Seeming breathless in stillborn
air, we watch each other, eyes applauding
our constant vigil. Through rain we linger,
arms hanging down to our touching fingers.
Roger Armbrust
from "oh, touch me there: love sonnets"
Published by Parkhurst Brothers Publishers
