I wallow waist-deep in rippling lake’s chilled
water, watching you seated on pebbled
shore, your smooth, suntanned frame crouched like a thrilled
diver in tuck position, your scribbled
and stroked flap-page sketchbook steadied on knees,
bowled bikinied butt and bare feet flexing
on thin towel with pen’s each rhythmic sweep.
I’ve never viewed graceful forms or text in
your sacred tablet, yet honor artist’s
cloister with pleased silence and distant gaze.
I see all in your eyes’ eternities,
tilt of your dazed face, smile brief but amazed
at what the Muse brings. Your hypnotic hands
rise in wonder, fingers like Circe’s wands.
Roger Armbrust
April 14,
2014
