Anne E Byrne - Halycolic Days

I am a Grecian Urn.
Titans rage – Muses swoon.
Worn handles – prints linger.
I am cracked from
Overtime in the stone kiln,
And aching joints.

Or perhaps a vase.
Slender. Used for display.
There are no buds in winter.

Making poetic love with
My trailing fingertips. Words
Stopper my lips. Everything
I’ve been longing to divulge.

Corked – water gushes –
Rinsing, cleansing;
Both baptism and communion.
The dam has burst. Flooded.
Are we drowning?

Survivors murmur. Unrippled,
Unruffled – the sheet of glass
Blankets us.
Civilians look to Mount Olympia,
Private prayers – silent smile.

Anne E Byrne

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