Oct. 1, 2018
Down the hill a grove stood thick, garden of oak and maple where flowed a rippling spring bubbling from beneath the earth and running the base of the grandest maple my eyes had ever lain. I swear the daughters of Zeus did live there! Along the edge of an old mountain spring birthing a marvelous rivulet- waters of the Gods’ so pure! But a child, of course, I thought through feeding tributary and on, my lovely rivulet, had gone to reach the ocean. But alas, I do not think so pure these days knowing, just beyond the bend honest waters swallowed back beneath the earth from whence they came but do not disperse from there. No, it bubbles to life again in the seventh circle of Hades in the sacred grove that stands there much like my own, but tainted by the wickedness of those who lament aside the edge of its waters where the fires do not burn just as Dante said. and my feted mind must know which sins may bring me here, for when Death comes to take me home, I’d rather suffer in familiar surroundings: sitting in my wickedness aside the water, toes dipped.