In that earlier life—my stout stallion
galloping in record time from Frankfurt—
dismounting by the Seine, depending on
my quill and parchment—desiring to start
an ode even before eating—I paused,
startled by your beauty as you gazed out
at the river’s flow. I stared and whispered
Gersemi. You couldn’t hear, I’ve
no doubt.
Yet you turned and smiled. I stepped to you, bowed
and took your hand. We walked a long while. Lost
by each other’s language, we laughed aloud,
then silence fell. Glowing eyes meant the most.
As sunset ruled, we kissed. We sensed our pain.
Without a word, we vowed to meet again.
Roger Armbrust
February 6,
2013
