I still see you living there, under thatch
by the sea. You at the window, blue waves
reflecting your focused eyes, slender catch
of light on your sun-bleached hair. How I crave
returning, though I’ve never been there. How
I long to watch you swimming, your long arms
and gentle hands stretching. You’re turning now
back to your poem, aren’t you? Rhythmic charms
of phrases swell through you, don’t they? I know.
This is living on fire and dance, spirit
breathing and igniting all. How you glow
when you write. How we both love and fear it,
don’t we? I watch you writing, your graceful
form. I whisper, “Beautiful…beautiful…”
Roger Armbrust
March 19, 2016
