Returning to me this evening—a ghost
of yourself, veiled with haze, translucent cloud
hinting of a million weavings—provost
who dignifies all heaven, speak aloud.
Inspire me so, like Confucius, I’ll call
you by your right name. Let me walk ages
with you. Did Master Kong smile, relate tall
stories of Heng-O, writing scrolled pages
of her bathing all twelve glowing children
in ancient world’s far western lake? Tell how
I knew you as Mawu, virtuous Sin,
Soma riding his chariot. Why now
you hover low within this misty night,
timid white rose embraced by candlelight.
Roger Armbrust
April 1, 2010
