Beach sand like furrows of stain-powdered malt,
and you seated facing gray scattered rocks
drifting into rippling lake’s sequined vault
stretching to horizon, guarding its stock
of slender flaming gold heaped like a melt-
ing sword off to your left. You motionless,
fair hair bunned up, dark cardigan (you felt
would guard you) spanning long sleeves to caress
your wrists, those delicate hands pressed to sand
as you barely lean back. I’m yards behind
(years too), memorizing your form, stark land
and calming water—praying to be kind
with silence as you meditate—not lift
your startled frame, embrace life's precious gift.
Roger Armbrust
March 28,
2014
