It's when I finish reading the poem,
then hold the page up to the light. Each time
I see your face embossed within that dim
cloth, your texture fertile as earth sometime
in spring when all awakens, your eyes slender
as fern leaves, as if asleep, as if dream
carried you through the poem, its tender
rhythms causing your soft mouth's smiling stream
of whispers to echo each syllable.
Whisper to me, love, something new and yet
eternal as spring now my hand's able
to lift you to light, your face amulet
of peace, keeping me safe from demons' ire,
your spirit's presence a poem of fire.
Roger Armbrust
July 23, 2010
