You were a strange child, my
mom once told me.
You loved playing alone in the
back yard,
and when a kid joined in, you
would coldly
ignore him, or throw a fit.
Always hard
to figure you out. Truth is, I’ve
never
found a human who’ll listen like the oak
when I sit close and speak of fear, clever
in its silence. Who will surround and soak
me with truths as rain does on summer nights,
soft, caressing rhythms revealing all.
Who defines life’s plight like the hawk in flight,
squirming squirrel trapped in talons. Or fall
of distant star, brandishing from above
ancient signals listing dire costs of love.
Roger Armbrust
November 4,
2012
