Mythology always, without fail, sets my mind to churn and my pen to motion. This morning, I read a poem that hovered about Olympus, so to speak. That poem, although topically unrelated, spark the piece I share here.
After an eternity of gripping lightning bolts,
his fingers are singed, his fingerprints
have crusted into black swirls of ash.
And Olympus lacks substance and form;
it’s far too ethereal. All those clouds –
thinner than the walls in a cheap motel.
There’s nothing to lean on,
nothing to bare one’s heft, one’s bones.
Rumor has it that the all powerful
abandoned his might months ago
and now tends a flock of sheep in Tibet,
reveling in the stench of wet wool,
how, after a rain, his stride sinks into the earth,
the tender hands of a woman who wants him,
yet has never feared him.