You feel it don’t you in the mute quaking
of the thin tulip petal’s opening
to sunlight. In the eternal aching
of fiery air searing through lungs to sting
the heart. I seem to feel it most I guess
when the autumn oak leaf senses caress
of sunset—that melding of peace and stress
when chill air and heat collide, coalesce
in those dying veins. I feel it brings home
to the oak something like a pulse, like some
subtle massage reminding how life comes
and goes briefly as breath: body’s ransom
shared with each cell. I feel it deep with your
presence I guess. But I’m not really sure.
Roger Armbrust
October 9, 2014
