Remember now what you were quick to learn
in childhood, the myths of old, that trickle
of wonder’s nectar; if you will, return
to Ouranos, laid low by his son’s sickle,
who poured out newborn Love and newborn Time:
that tale retell, that memory now prime.

But now consider Kronos in his prime
defeated by the ageless father; learn
another story. Imagine how its time
would pass, no surging current, just a trickle
of moons: the new, the full, the crescent sickle,
that silent pass, and silently return.

Each morning the all-father would return
from Earth’s bed to the cloud-grey throne––the Prime
One moving here and there, a broken sickle
milled into sand, no human kind to learn
who held it. Under oceans fine grains trickle.
Deep, deep: they will be flint again in time.

Rocks form, rains roar and rise, at any time
our eyes would see new things when old return
new-seeming in that geologic trickle
that seeps too slow for us (however prime
it is to those who wish to truly learn
what is a rock, a life, a son, a sickle).

No tusk or trowel, sword or harvest sickle
has, on that Earth, snipped off the laws of time,
and there is little shaped for us to learn,
few things to which our glances can return
in comfort, of what we brought to its prime
––art, friendship, silent thought––not the least trickle.

We stand where streams of ghostly colors trickle,
where Death is dreaming, leaning on his sickle,
and sandstorms blow across the hot day’s prime,
where Ouranos the holy, hard with time
calls hoarsely at odd intervals, “Return!”
and we may think, though we may never learn,
he hopes to prime his son, to see that time
with even sharper sickle-edge return,
to trickle from his veins new worlds to learn.