for Julianne Honey Gonzalez
These dried, severed twigs aligned side by side
on some old stained wooden bench, tree fragments
fenced in nearly equal size, now reside
in my inner vision, sculptured form meant
to touch us as they each touch, like fingers
sensing nature’s slightest friction. Say they
form a dryad’s spine. How she sighed, lingered
as long as she could before giving way
to death alongside her withered oak. Tell
folks Artemis laid her here, weeping free
as spring rain over her. How soft tears fell
and soaked her small sacred corpse. All we see
now is this structured column. Motionless,
silent, it’s essence still tells us we’re blessed.
Roger Armbrust
May 15, 2010
