The satyr Pan
Through the brush of the forest
Watched wide-eyed as the Nymphs,
Messengers of Artemis,
Lay in their lush meadow,
Awaiting news of their lady.
At once, a dreamy memory emerged
Of those virgin sapphics that,
In his youth,
Called upon his cicada chorus
To ideally pass their lazy afternoons.
And so, a flute's note rang,
Sharp! Trill! And true,
Disturbing the fretting Lark from her worm,
The Hawk from his hunt,
And the Nymphs from their rest.
But Pan watched in horror
As from the Nymph's forbidden circle,
The cicadas for whom he had called
Crawled wingless through the leaf litter
Toward their god agape.
The smallest nymph, Rhanis,
Then raised her face in delight
And in all earnest smiled at her revealed admirer,
Iridescent wings slipped into her teeth
And the souls of the singing wood in her stomach.
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The Mists of October
PoetryA series of poems for those who find themselves lost in between summer's longing embrace and autumn's frost-kissed beckoning.