She woke up early
in the morning,
the tree-bed holding her;
how far across the sea
his roving oar.
Did she batten on the dawn,
feed geese coming across the lawn,
touch the raveled work
on which heroes and battles
were limned?
The door opens this day;
in its white frame
the bright blue sky
startles the shaded eye,
makes the mind, the heart
forget the pain, the time gone by.
In the highest heavens
the gods carom like bosons,
making up their minds.
The die once cast,
the magical black ship
quick as a falcon,
pilotless, rudderless,
already under way.
Odysseus, at ease,
sits in the stern;
in the wake,
tireless, mysterious,
one wine-dark following wave.
That bold wily man,
knees strung like bowstrings,
speeds over the sea,
coming closer; closer yet
dog, pig-man and shepherd;
before supper
the great game, greater
than a maze, a rite
waiting to be played;
over the floor
the axe heads hang
high as geese.
Flickering like firelight
the arrows leaping
leave a long mark,
a curtain of blood,
a flood of death.
But this morning calm
the sea lies,
like a blue hand.
Will the day be bright,
the boisterous gallants
gone like the wind?
She rests in wisdom
by the window;
the windy day,
her steadfast hope,
far off.
