Because she sings when she walks though never
making a sound. Because her walk’s a song --
internal rhythm harsh world can’t sever
from her deepest self. Her rhythm belongs
to our world and beyond. Flow of her walk
a swimmer’s rhythm, swimmer through calm lake
at sunset, her long strokes a song. I talk
to her of this when I’m alone. I take
my time, my voice caressing the soft dark.
I tell her how Bob Marley would love her,
make her a song on “Catch a Fire”. He’d mark
her a special place on the island where
she could meditate, walk the beach, feel free
to swim, share her silent song with the sea.
Roger Armbrust
January 4, 2016
