We all long, I suppose, for our ashes
secured in a satellite forever
to glow like a star. I kiss your lashes,
your closed eyes quivering, cheeks with fever
matching my face, our great moon roaming space—
glowing astronaut clothed in silhouette.
Our winding planet carries it, like grace,
over us, a pace we’ll never forget
as long as we breathe. You’ve no idea,
I see in your eyes, of life’s great power
flowing from you. I hand a spirea
to meld with your delicate fingers. Our
longing lingers. You gaze off, hold something
hidden, like Renoir’s lady on the swing.
Roger Armbrust
July 11, 2011
