to sense love, to hold its gentle flower
safe as we stumble under scorching sun,
through scalding storms, spirit’s healing power
even amending macheted hearts; one
word, one glance enough to blind our staring
eyes; one touch, one chance enough to regain
insight to our being, send us glaring
with joy out beneath bright night’s three-parts pain—
all this…all this…is worth it after all,
isn’t it? Fingertips smoothing the arm,
moist lips wisping the cheek, soft mating calls
of angels only we can hear. What charms
gods conjure to stun us, make us confess
we adore our fate: being cursed and blessed.
Roger Armbrust
February 3,
2014
