Her clear-river eyes, her deep-river eyes
searching the truth I share with her. Wanting
to speak, I’m sure, more than I allow, wise
enough to let me ramble through haunting,
joyous experience before time runs
out. When we’ve somehow survived the swamp, we
want loved ones to sense omens, distant sun’s
glances off signposts of hope. Who is free,
really, once scarred by pain? What can save us
but faith’s gift of clear-river eyes focused
on reality, humor’s irony,
our vulnerable hearts daring lonely
fear to surrender to life, its surprise
endless for clear-river, deep-river eyes.
Roger Armbrust
November 23, 2014
