If I told you this snowfield’s a blank page
and my lithe boots are old typewriter keys
etching a sonnet for you of an age
when we’d lie as one beside Christmas trees,
holding each other till dawn—even through
sleep and dreams as Mathis and choirs echo
carols of joy—how would you respond? You
really can’t know what my blazed senses know:
how no flashing tree light or candle flame
can match your glow: eyes destined to dissolve
mountain ranges or distant planets, fame
of your loving gaze firing my resolve
to inflame your passion even more, yearn
to shine like Bethlehem’s star as we burn.
Roger Armbrust
December 17,
2012
