Giving slight time to sorrow, I refuse
to borrow but a bit from denial.
Showering precious hours with song, I use
melody to measure honest trials
of time, tones of my poems both recalling
and calling up images of you—my
method of celebrating beauty. Sing
of my muse, gentle wind, I intone. Fly
to caress her in sleep with my deepest
mantras of care. Carry us to your heart’s
canyon, fertile spirit’s field of deep rest.
Since selfish time grasps and holds us apart,
I won’t base our continuum on years,
but laughter, your glistened prisms of tears.
Roger Armbrust
November 10, 2010
