Embossing machine bit Steven’s right hand;
chomped off half his index finger, middle’s
top joint. A filmmaker, he’s in command
again; won’t let the accident fiddle
with his craft. But I can’t forget how my
daughter called crying, crushed by her dear friend’s
mishap. Though she’s rallied, too, somehow I
wake mornings, lie quiet, lift my forelimbs
toward the window’s glow, study their slender
forms like slim humans standing tall and still
on some distant hill; love their slow, tender
bows as they rotate toward me, sculptures filled
with flowing shadows laced by soft sunlight.
I repeat this ritual by moonlight.
Roger Armbrust
December 7, 2008
