Springtime Somewhere
Near Where Icarus Flew

By Margaret Van Every


Thousands have made the promised hajj;

hundreds have been trampled and won’t come home.

Six million rams will have their throats slit

in remembrance of Isaac, whose throat was spared.

Others, remembering another, are nailing hands

and feet to crosses or whipping flesh to shreds.

At the fallen temple of Aphrodite

springtime stirs like a sensual woman

shedding sleep. Snows recede to the peaks,

leaf buds on poplars in the sacred grove

are greening. The same source bubbles up

where Aristotle and Alexander drank.

Hold your breath and listen. Sibyls whisper

that the wise may hear: She watches still.


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