Olives of Endless Age


To love so, truly can become the dawn,
The shining afternoon, a tranquil eve,
Every summers’ day you want, the lawn
So green and free of weeds, rain seems naïve.
But I should prove it. Apollo, you can
Be the Olympian, if you like. Dionysus,
I know you’d rather crawl, your life a span
Between mire and fire. Crawl, though, for us.
For we are poor—poor in poverty,
Poor in earthworms—the lawn is sodden black—
And poor in gods and goddesses.  They flee
And fly–perhaps they never will come back.
So, proof I must confess: it works, for clerks
Of love, this poetry of furor. It works.

[i] And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Shakespeare, Sonnet  107


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