Too tired to sleep, I study you holding
your grandchild at Christmas, your welcome smile
like stormy night’s lighthouse light in scolding
sea, guiding me through jagged coast’s last mile
to port and serenity—true friend’s code.
Who knows when it happens, this life rhythm’s
linking conscious contact? How it explodes
sometimes. Sometimes it’s silent as prism’s
altering light. I love to study your
eyelight, satin hair gracing your forehead.
Even in this noiseless space, I hear pure
voice guiding your lyric, curing my dread
of void. I smile at small child in your lap,
at your dimpled cheek, white-fluff Santa’s cap.
Roger Armbrust
June 11, 2013
