Easy late spring afternoons, in the cool shade of the woods. Waiting with the poets the fine moment when it’s time to leave there the books and the tea, to grab a rod, short and light, and a small tin box of flies, because now the fish will want to play.
But at the dawn of meaning —
When the stone is still obscure, the color
mud, in the brush’s impatience —
Paris carries Helen off;
She struggles, she cries out,
She accepts. The waves are calm,
Against the prow, and daybreak is
Shining across the sea.