I envision her strumming a guitar
though I’ve never heard her play. Perhaps it’s
her gentle hand caressing trimmed wet hair,
leading me to compare visions. She sits
with right elbow resting on chair’s low neck,
her arm stretching her gentle hand to strong
shoulder. Her fingers lightly run through flecks
of silk highlights natural as rain, long
once as guitar strings, now curling past chin
to throat. Perhaps I once saw a campfire
scene on Facebook, her gentle hands gracing
an acoustic’s neck. Perhaps it’s desire
all humans possess to connect visions
as dawn stretches shoulders of horizon.
Roger Armbrust
December 6, 2014
