on this July summer night. Almost smell
honeysuckle aroma flowing through
from Allsopp Park. My eyes can almost tell
across the dark that standing spirit’s you
watching me at my keyboard. Fingers flick
quick letters to words to phrases to lines
creating your sonnet. Wish I knew tricks
of sorcerers to call you forth. It’s fine,
I suppose, just hearing your lyric voice,
feeling your mystical blood flow through me:
psychic transfusion renewing my choice
to welcome the muse’s blessing. We’re free
to create, to observe and capture swift
wings of angels, to honor heaven’s gift.
Roger Armbrust
July 2, 2013
