Open my writing room windows and sweet
April breeze flows in like spirits of gods
calling all poets to write, to repeat
gifted connection of sacred words, nod
yes to our simple deep process, and bless
the blesser of all. Outside, a rare car
passes, breathing out its goodbye. I guess
its driver left isolation to spar
with virus at the grocery, perhaps
save lives at St. Vincent. Maybe drive
to a far hillside to simply relax
and sing down to the valley, stay alive
through distant connection, like those million
Sahara winds sweep rain to the Amazon.
Roger Armbrust
April 17, 2020
