It’s almost too much—how bright sunlight fills
our greenful oaks, church’s hedgerows on North
Lookout, ignites near yards’ dogwood. You’d thrill
at lying in fresh grass, feel it pour forth
with earth’s deep energy. I’d thrill at your
eyes reflecting emerald field, your face
sun’s canvas of shadow and light, so sure
an artist of spring season’s flaming grace.
April evening feigns midday. I’m lost,
it seems. Let me say how dreams escape me
only to find you—fire in my mind’s vast
continent of longing. How you take me
with you through far journeys, never learning,
I’m sure, how I watch from above, yearning.
Roger Armbrust
April 22,
2014
