Goethe, feeling he’d lost her evermore,
searched the forest and called to her shadow,
his psyche still sensing her voice. He wore
black surely ever after, bowing low
(I believe) each time wind whispered her name.
I think of you in black -- sleeveless dress kissed
by pink-white flowers. Why nothing’s the same
with you distant, prayer will simply dismiss
as this day’s fate, letting faith gather each
hour some true image of you until time
for meeting again as sunrise will reach
out and ignite flowing river. I’ll climb
Pinnacle, perhaps, to find you, or trace
our room’s history for your glowing face.
Roger Armbrust
August 2, 2015
