I rise in dark morning, lava burning
through my body, my mind’s maniacal
editing session steeped in lost yearning
for you and yet beyond you, radical
voices screaming and whispering rumors
of what we’ve been and may become. I must
write it out now while fire brings light. No more
images spewing relentless. No rust
coating cold memory. Record the storm.
And yet as I write, I’m hearing again
Dvořák’s Cypresses, feel healing calm
surround me, caress me through gentle rain
of violins, reminding again how
all brings prayer: rhythms of words, music’s flow.
Roger Armbrust
November 29, 2010
