Oh, you who love our universe, who sees
it in each artist’s brushstroke, in writer’s
and poet’s keystroke, each sure hand’s caress
of clay and wood, spectrum ray grown lighter
through shade and glass, take this lettered necklace
before you, this fourteen-line ebony
brooch—each dull curve searching, finding its place
next to each, honoring space, harmony
of connecting as one—gather its soft
texture, its crude attempt at grace and hope,
and with gentle measure hold it aloft
to dawn of your soul’s eyeglow, envelope
it in treasure of your thought, knowing sure
as memory I write this to be yours.
Roger Armbrust
February 3,
2013
