Greek Ode

The concierge Panagiotis

And the breakfast hostess Maria Rodite

Moved the table under the olive tree

Where the shade was deep, for the sun was mighty.

A turtle the size of a two euro coin

Drew in its extremities

When a sandaled footfall came down near it

As countless others had and will for centuries.

The ancient reptile lives forever

As it always was since the first seed.

It's the gods who die day in, are born

From sea foam scudding shingles,

From stone walls climbing dingles

Where goats go to be shorn,

Where gulls pluck mussels from the rockweed

Sprouting in the plenitude to ever waver.

The hard combs rolled over the town all winter,

Poor pure chaos that heaves the weather.

The river spewed up all of its garbage―

Paper white like wool on wire clung to the bare twigs.

And the mud banks perspire under a decoupage

That fed a treeful of figs

As the sun made sinter of palm frond and feather.

What do I aim for? That is, why aim?

To say you can do anything else is sheer Buddhistness;

That one can refrain, pie in the ascetic welkin

That can do anything but rain.

Since only turtles make all manner of thing happen

And only gods can take away your pain,

This must be my struggle to remember

And my reward when I forget again.