It’s the way she studies the dark, the night
of ebony veils which hide deep secrets,
bury all, it seems, but eyes of blue light --
mystery’s glow revealing her regrets,
her joys she’s never uttered. In the dark
she lifts her hand, stretches her arm beyond
heaven and hell, recalls pressing moist, stark
rock of leaning mountain in daylight, fond
of its slope, its crevice carved through decades
of elements, its gaping jaw nature’s
passionate kiss. She sees the mark she made,
her delicate fingers impressed, secured
with white paint as she stretched up on tiptoe,
envisioning now as once long ago.
Roger Armbrust
May 14, 2016
