“I haven’t been writing,” she said, her eyes
flashing like sunlight off flowing river
at reality of rushing time. I
offered to talk, sip coffee, deliver
to her my mentor’s gift of connecting
particles of universe, crafting them
into diamond phrases for selecting
and clasping close to heart: life’s stratagem
for foiling fickle memory. He knew
I couldn’t grasp it then, but soon would see.
I know this about her—how she pursues
each phrase from my lips; how laser eyes trace
each word’s history with subconscious grace.
Roger Armbrust
January 8, 2015
