for Nicole Mayer
on her birthday
on her birthday
I shuffle slick cards but hear vast ocean,
watch red hearts and black spades, but truly see
my blue Pacific surging to white when
caressing shadowed shore at sunset; plead
to far waves to call my name as I walk
the hills above -- deep emerald, fertile
as an artist’s senses.
Some players talk
faster when winning. Some stay mute and still,
like sea oats on a windless day. A year
older now. Where are we going? So much
to read and learn. So much wisdom to hear
and decide. So many faces to touch,
study their eyes and understand. Chips fall
like stale leaves, still I hear the ocean call.
Roger Armbrust
March 6, 2016
