to sting of morning, to flexing fingers
coming out of hiding, reborn body
now rising to earth where nothing lingers
but flows on. At the window, nobody
but your vision, and beyond, revisions
of yesterday’s landscape. If you could hear
(and perhaps you do) how that mockingbird
alters silence, buffers hissing laughter
of cars, you might understand how gentle
thoughts of you glide through me like glowing sun
through those bare oaks, growing light my mental
flight pattern across life newly begun.
My spirit’s lifted to bliss of clear skies,
or is that sacred blessing of your eyes?
Roger Armbrust
February 21, 2012
