Here’s the sonnet I was going to write:
Gazing out at lashing ice giving way
to blizzard, still enwrapped by townhouse light
and warmth, my romantic mind forms a play:
What if I donned heavy coat and boots with
scarf guarding my face, walked through storm to you,
my stumbling journey brave essence of myth,
spirit guiding me, morphing my thick shoes
to wings? I rise, fend off sleet and stark flakes,
sail over stalled highways, pearl-flocked forests,
darkened villages and mist-frozen lakes,
easing down at your front door. My
form tests
Zhivago, refugee from winter war,
hovering at Lara’s gate. Would you stare,
send me away, knowing I’d come so far?
Roger Armbrust
December 29, 2012
