I’d like to write you another sonnet.
Nothing about liquidity and time,
I suppose, nor even Halley’s comet
and its aphelion. No poem sublime
as Auden meditating on Voltaire,
or Lowell
recalling his uncle’s strife.
But something simple as Frost who declares
how a birch can bend like a lean young wife
drying her hair in spring sun. How I can
watch your eyes reflecting light, and yet see
light deeper still within. I’m just a man
with a keyboard and memory: Ay me!
she sighed on her balcony while he gazed
from below, and the glorious night blazed.
Roger Armbrust
May 20, 2012
