Why is it I can’t stop looking at you
seated in your church pew, your lavender
gown caressing your frame, eyes of gray blue
glowing lavender? Just why I’m under
this spell as you linger on altar step,
caught in sacred ceremony’s splendor—
burning stained glass surrounding you, precept
of your being interweaving ardor
and serenity—I suppose each wall’s
wooden carving could explain if only
I could hear them whisper. But if it’s all
left to me, instead of living lonely
silence, I’ll say at Clinton’s (a quiver
in my voice) just how I love the river.
Roger Armbrust
October 9, 2011
