Saturday near midnight, listening to
Mozart, thinking of Georgia O’Keeffe and
Alfred Stieglitz, first her “Red Canna”, view
of flower’s center like gold torch, second
Alfred’s b&w of her nude body
framed by light of curtained window.
All these in a flash. But internal eye
rests on that photo he couldn’t destroy:
their kissing by an old oak, both covered
by dark coats and hats, her leaning forward
as if he pulled her close, her mouth buried
in his white mustache, her hands disappeared.
I cherish their loving physical contact.
Pray soon we’ll embrace it again as fact.
Roger Armbrust
March 28, 2020
