;
The Danaid
My fingers glide across your nape, shoulders and waist,
your hair flowing down into the still, warm bath.
Like Rodin’s Danaid, you rest momentarily at the edge,
your back, marble smooth, glistening in morning light.
Soon you will rise and fill the sieve of our lives to the brim
again and again and watch the water drain out again and again.
Without hammer or chisel I alone sculpted this scene
and remain unable to break the white, cold stone or begin anew.
;
Ed Snow is a regular blogger at D&S. Read more about him here.