I call to you in silence every night.
I reach and touch you though you’re never there.
Sometimes I open my window, take flight
to where you lie sleeping; whisper I care
for your poems as gardener nurtures leaf
and petal: those poems I keep, and those
I never see. What Auden knew of grief
in our age, what Frost knew of birch and rose,
what Edna knew of candle, Emily
knew of wild nights, and Elizabeth knew
of one art, I know of you: how you lie
in silence of night, in heartbeat and through
prayer breathing verse natural as moonlight
capturing your blue eyes, your deep insight.
Roger Armbrust
October 2, 2015
