As Mickelson misses a birdie putt
at 14, I’m wondering what it’s like
to sit with you at the wedding, soft cut
of light through stained glass. How my bare psyche
would caress texture and color of your
dress, your shining hair, your scene-focused eyes.
I’d whisper to you how sacred and pure
weddings seem, how deep love’s always the prize.
As Stricker drives down 18’s left fairway,
I hear you saying golf puts you to sleep.
I see you napping on my couch. They play
through 7 p.m. I watch your eyes keep
dancing beneath closed lids. Somehow it seems
you’ve always been here, welcomed by your dreams.
Roger Armbrust
June 15, 2013
