Again I’m called upon to cleave
the poppy from the stem

the weight, the choice that isn’t mine
to make, to take, forsake the one

breast, for one who Cancer calls, cupidinous
a fever creeping shore to sandy shore

and I. Must wait.

And will you, wont you, busy oars
while seasons stretch at winter’s pace

The ice grows thin, the shadows long
But not the daffodil, the heads that bob

their eager eyes, they learn, I learn
They do not know the fate

and I. Prevaricate.

Equivocate. I do not say
the choice is all but made

May. May it is again. Unless you call
and cleave with me. Your voice

Your hungry voice, so parched, so cold
a brittle line, remembers when

and I. Go home.

Categories: Poetry

Tags: Greek Mythology, poem, Poetry