26 again

A Grecian oracle took my hand

up the slopes to sky, look

how the land cracks despite

our care, walk the rocks

with thought.


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

grow free



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