Your hair curling, barely touching shoulder
blades, your left caressed with blue tattoo—winged
butterfly ever hovering. Bolder
than most I know, you flew south like waxwings,
crossing continents, inhabited towns
and jungles with equal ease, your goal as
always to care for others. Your tan gown’s
a wonder, I’d like to say, yet I’ll pass
the chance and watch in silence, as if I’m
guarding a heart of cracked glass. I marvel
at your voice, sometimes a soft, sacred chime,
sometimes subtle as distant thunder. Tell
me once more with your eyes how deep cosmos
lies within us, found again after loss.
Roger Armbrust
August 4, 2011
