By Sam Ambler
It’s in his eyes,
in the fiery-blue
sparkle
that catches
in the corner
just before
he winks.
Such a look
is too much
for the world.
I can scarce
take it in.
It’s in his body,
in the hint
of a hunch
in his shoulders
that loosens
when he stands
upright.
Such a weight
is the brand
of worry.
Branded, perhaps,
but not owned.
It’s in his hands,
in the set
of his fingers
as he lifts
the pencil
and begins to sketch.
Such a touch
has power
to make stars.
I can feel it
stroke
upon my cheek.
It’s in his heart,
in the steadfast nature
of his love
as lithe
as a dancer
mid-leap,
giving breath
an easy peace.
Such depth
welcomes grace.
Giving
and receiving.
It’s in his soul,
in the loft
and breadth
of the space
where his spirit
thrives.
Such an aura
is endearing,
illuminating truth
and trust.
I am warmed
in his light.
It’s in his mind,
in the twisting
pathways
of self-confidence
and fear
leading him
to laughter
and to prayer.
Such a one
is like unto God.
Such a one
I hold in my arms.
Sam Ambler’s writing has been published in Christopher Street, The James White Review, City Lights Review Number 2, Nixes Mate Review, and Visitant, among others. He won the San Francisco Bay Guardian’s 6th Annual Poetry Contest.
He earned a BA in English, specializing in creative writing of poetry, from Stanford University. He delivered singing telegrams and sang with the Temescal Gay Men’s Chorus in Berkeley and the Pacific Chamber Singers in San Francisco. He has worked in nonprofit theater at Berkeley Rep, Geffen Playhouse, Actors’ Equity, and The Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts. Now retired, he lives in California with his husband, visual artist Edward L. Rubin.