It’s that oak tree dominating bright view
through my writing room’s north double window.
Pin oak maybe, or Sawtooth (I’m no true
scientist, fake one either). When I grow
tired of my monitor, old fingers sore
from fiery keyboard dance, those right words slow
to fall in line, I’ll gaze out at its score
of sunsoaked (dawn, noon, or dusk) curios:
sometimes bouquets of hands reaching toward me
as if their caress will solve all. Sometimes
winter-starved bare limbs, fingers adoring
last light with clickings like ancient wind chimes.
Sometimes lapping tongues capturing manna,
or dragons’ heads nodding uh-huh, uh-huh.
Roger Armbrust
July 17, 2009
