Saturday, April 18, 2015

Areté

From this niche, my eyes follow
the swarming of the white bees,
an errant swirl of snowflakes
chased by a singing wind.

All day long, words are gathering.
They flee away from my fingers
and tangle in the willow branches,
before fluttering across the globe.

I wait for news, until, after dark,
Areté, wearing her silvery cloak,
holds a lamp to veiled inscriptions
still eluding my interpretation.









No comments:

En plein air - in memoriam Andrew Bellon

A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...

popular on this site