December Friday and 74
degrees of humid sun. I wonder if
you’re writing today. Or heading off for
some weekend retreat. Maybe a slick skiff
on Maumelle. Christmas feels hiding silent
on a melting iceberg far away. Yet
our oaks and maples sense the season, scent
of their falling leaves drenching me. I set
off for Hillcrest, my running shoes grumbling
at my casual pace, my heart pounding
from thick fresh air’s assault, poems tumbling
out my whispering mouth, verses sounding
like ghosts swirling through wind. When Tolstoy divined
brilliant women I’m sure he had you in mind.
Roger Armbrust
December 11, 2015
