You, hands folded in Namaste, present
our decent close, I suppose. Your upper
body a pyramid of beauty. Glint
of back windowlight canonizing your
sacred end to our silent pas de deux.
Your azure eyes summarize our motif --
ancient gods sighing, falling into blue
ether’s endless breath of hope. So, what if
we stay to whisper our syllable’s last
segment? Tacita, mute goddess, would bless
Roman poets with insight. Hypnos cast
away care, brought Greeks peaceful sleep, I guess.
If nothing’s perfect for the gods, why should it
hold for us? Still, we smile and gaze like prophets.
Roger Armbrust
April 15, 2016
