A Grecian oracle took my hand
up the slopes to sky, look
how the land cracks despite
our care, walk the rocks
I could not. I had to stop.
I saw verbascum, yellow beacons like buoys
stumbling over paths, even cliffs, figwort
figments remaining in crevices
like springs of fresh source.
I stare Pythia in the face
as I did at 26 walking still
to an iambic rhythm, we know it
well. Pindhos markers, settling limestone
talk with Pindar and Sophocles where purple orchids
Copyrighted by the author