First your dramatic openings—a wrong
turn, sky sweating, failed attempts,
waiting for
his family name—rhythm a stark song
of friction setting the scene. Then
valor
of a sudden close—crying softly with
sky as subtle message, or glaring pride
he’s forgotten how to live (fact, not
myth)
without you. I imagine how inside
your psyche you welcome clear images—
sudden flickering candle flames, soft
gifts
from the Muse. She’s carried them for
ages,
awaiting you. As you approach, she
lifts
them as offerings, stands and stares a
while,
as I often do, at your eyes and smile.
Roger
Armbrust
January
12, 2015
