For Elizabeth Weber
In her dream, smooth crystal river mirrors
her forest as she always envisioned:
deep veils of emerald, graceful blue scarves
of rare moss, or ghosts perhaps, precision
of rhythm cloaking green hills or curved clefts
nearly hiding glints of distant firelight,
while aqua blue sky holds hints of what’s left
of night. Yet still ghastly before her, fright
of what’s real: Her forest ablaze, flames deep
as lava and melting fluorescent drapes
of leaf-soaked limbs and falling sky. They keep
flowing toward but never reaching this cape
of reflecting calm, as if gods exist
and grasp fate, or simply
bless the artist.
Roger Armbrust
July 19, 2012
