Watching the snowfall. I’m thinking of you.
It wisps from east to west like mind’s millions
of images soon scattered, lost from view.
Not long till dark. Now blue-white tarpaulin
the parking lot, canvas of frozen dusk.
Flakes flurry larger, faster. I fear our
old oak may not last through winter. Wind’s brusque
howls, harsh-forming ice may narrow its hour.
How easy it would be right now to weave
my arms through yours, caress your waist, your face.
How easy to tell you streetlights conceive
angels in their peach-powder glow, share grace
with each ray of light. Easy to trace skies
of starlight (crystal snowfields) through your eyes.
Roger Armbrust
February 7,
2014
