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

 

 

Copyrighted by the author

 

 

 

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