Grasping white-cylinder weapons between
forefinger and thumb, they trace slate green fields
with pearl curves and points, each mark creating
letter, word and phrase, while shrill scratches yield
formulae or designs guiding us free
from dense fog toward traces of gleaming wisps
we one day will call grace of clarity.
Wielding book shields like mirrors, their lips lisp
great lines, echoes of warriors—distant, wise—
who braved constant skirmishes carrying
our flank forward, showing how to survive,
keep fearful pretenders from burying
us alive, love as humans—not to win—
but laugh, embrace till our next fight begins.
Roger Armbrust
November 7, 2009
