It’s not the sweep of yellow-gold I sense
as beach sand, lump of log like a bowing,
gray moray eel, or crowd of sea oats dense
as dark thoughts holding me, but that glowing
sky of off-white haze and splotched blue, gleaming
not from artist’s brush but reflective light.
Its glaze a hypnotist causing dreaming,
as if a lost wanderer now found, bright
luster forming a kind higher power
watching over this lean barrier key.
Could we fall into this canvas, would your
lithe form lie here with me? Would we be free
to whisper our deepest dreams? Awe artist
with our presence, our reason to exist?
Roger Armbrust
February 23,
2014
