Not speckles on your sweet holiday ham,
sintered oxide covering metal door,
reflective lens of your digital cam
nor transparent surface of marble floor.
Not vitreous coating on ceramic
vase holding my passion-red rosebud gift,
nor glossy gleam of your blouse’s fabric,
but your thin-iced face, love, after our rift:
smooth and lustrous, yet refusing to melt
to my apology, or crack a smile
at my amending joke. I know you felt
my excuse a lie, my intentions vile.
I could tell when your eyes lost their soft glow,
their frost-glistened gaze like frozen windows.
Roger Armbrust
November 22, 2009
