misting like memory’s whisper through my
writing room window and I’d swear it’s your
soft voice caressing me last Monday, shy
and cautious yet happy eyes gazing, sure
of yourself just as I, in spirit’s space
so calm. We considered coffee and plain
conversation, yet didn’t commit place
or time. Steady footfalls echoed by rain
this night bring clear visions of you running,
gallant gazelle dashing over asphalt,
glowing eyes and quick feet shunning cunning
cars and sly potholes, shining bold face caught
up in race’s joyous solitude. You
sail in beauty through night, like spirits do.
Roger Armbrust
April 3, 2012
