You in moonlight, poised by ocean where you’ve
never stood before, silk gown reflecting
moonlight rippling in slightest wind. You move
through sand graceful as spirit selecting
souls to save. Then your legs lift in ballet,
your arms forming arcs framing moonlight, your
face feigning moonlight, its crystal display
of joy here at end of earth. Is this pure
Rachmaninoff? Epic poetry, gift
of Homer for the ages? Rhapsode
in dream performance on some ancient clift
lost in myth’s dimension? What melody
descends from moonlight to inspire your dance?
You seem to bless moonlight with whispered chants.
Roger Armbrust
June 4, 2013
