It’s always our end and our beginning,
balancing our continuum. I hear
it strike and Patsy Cline’s haunting voice sings
of walking and searching. Then Ed Poe’s clear
chant echoes Nevermore. Now
Beethoven
moves through his fantasy sonata. I’d
swear I see in the far field a coven
of ballerinas. Their lithe bodies glide
to his adagio through stark moonlight.
Surely this divines coming of our muse,
she who fires poets’ desire and insight.
Will she bless me with honest words? Accuse
me of fear and sloth? I breathe deep and stir.
I kneel, praying she’ll let me honor her.
Roger Armbrust
April 6, 2013
