There’s still room for beauty, room for rich blood’s
rush to head and heart, for closed lips parted
in approaching kiss, for tongue’s making good
a shy wish. That great night Chopin started
his nocturne, surely somewhere a stellar
galaxy reappeared, amazing eyes
of astronomers worldwide, reaching far
into cells of Sand’s hand, guiding its rise
and fall over parchment, quill’s tip
forming phrases in rhythm to music
flowing from the other room. Her soft lips
must have curved in pleasure, sensing mystic
connection, a night free of harsh quarrels,
passions bare as Andromeda spirals.
Roger Armbrust
August 19,
2013
