We stand together here, love, just outside
Savignano, among the riverbank’s
deep grass, where red-gray water’s flow collides
with blue sky’s glow, inspiring artist’s thanks
as she paints, balancing her lean easel
on hill-steep shore, a mere five yards from us.
Dark forest’s legion of trees seem to swell
at our backs, reminding us of Caesar’s
historic choice and, yes, our decision
to cross our own doubt-filled, mud-hued shallows,
face pain and former dear ones’ derision,
those wars no match for our own sad, hallowed
search within ourselves—that night we confessed
in whispers: Alea iacta est.
Roger Armbrust
August 29, 2010
