for Elizabeth Weber
Your sculpture’s sphere seems a vanilla scoop
from Cold Stone Creamery, leaf skeletons
slender caramel strains, or veins atop
an ancient bald head. Those dandelion
wishes you surely sowed with artist’s breath
reside inside your wool roving like endgrams
of precious memory: loves, dreams, dear deaths
you still regret. They ignite my random
past visions of delight or pain: gifts or
sins. Those honey locust thorns recall life’s
tortures: shared guilt for holy Carpenter’s
bloody skull; St. Benedict’s chosen strife,
falling on thorns to avoid temptation;
how pandemics bring artists inspiration.
Roger Armbrust
April 21, 2020
