I wonder what you’d write, seeing bright sun’s
reflection off Grace Lutheran’s tan brick
the way I see it now, pre-dusk begun
for only seconds. The way light can flick
and fade off oak leaves flinching in brief wind.
I’d like to watch your eyes study the light
out west, edging its way past Texas, bend
over New Mexico’s mountains, quick flight
through Arizona, then long, gentle fall
off San Diego’s edge down ebbing blue
of the Pacific. I’d like to hear calls
you hear from Euterpe, melodies you
reap from her flute, words she dearly imparts
from ancient gods’ chants only to your heart.
Roger Armbrust
June 8, 2013
