of meeting you at the outdoor café
near Lincoln Center that haunting spring day
when anonymous blossoms swept away
from us like childhood hopes fading to mist
of the distant fountain causes my fist
to tighten ever so slightly. We kissed
as if we feared religions might recede
deep into Mideast tombs or implode weeds
from wedding bouquets. Or cause us to bleed
from foreheads like great myths on stone tablets.
Do you still recall the German hamlet,
the house where we loved? Or did you forget?
At dusk an alpine swift swept to our sill.
We watched it and held close—silent and still.
Roger Armbrust
August 15, 2011
