I wonder if she’s writing tonight. Heat
of breezeless dark, quarter moon like drowsy
eyelight mesmerizing her eyes complete
with tension’s imagery of cloudless sky,
stars in tug-of-war with glare of distant
skyline. I wonder if she climbed today
that ancient route of rock she always wants
to scale and find the river, ancient way
the wanderers used to climb. I wonder
if her skylight eyes looked past horizon,
past yawning sunset where the Muse wanders,
pauses, listens, waits for her decision.
I wonder if she sees me far out yonder
wondering if she wonders what I wonder.
Roger Armbrust
June 23, 2015
