I keep wanting to write to you, tell how
August sun reflects off oak leaves’ surface
with minute degree of radiance now
compared to yesterday’s light on your face
in our large room, your long fingers rising
to your mouth speaking of opera, your
soft smile divining, so still surprising
me after all this time. Tell me what cure
exists for apology. Doggonit,
we know where these rhymed lines are leading us:
over paths to a new book of sonnets
(whose charming title we’ll later discuss
since I’ve already used your first name). Wise
poets (like me) would consider your eyes.
Roger Armbrust
August 22,
2013
