Athena

As you imagined me, I came
      to you, near as the sound of an owl
           in the clearing, then nearer,

my eyes two moons, one holding
      the gaze of another, silver
           under an olive leaf—bridle,

bit, chariot, ship, the water chinning
          the scant prow, shearwater
                 splitting the gold waves.

Spirit-bubble, I held your own beam
         level and then squared it, a kite
                 that dove among the islands,

chasing its own tail of light that
          left only its leavings, as autumn
                 scatters summer when it

arrives. Near to the shore, linen
          beat to my breath on the bank,
                 near to the fields, wool

caught on the brambles where
           the sheep ate from my hand
                  but you drew back! Then

I knew to draw nearer, and nearer
          still—and draw, us two together
                 on the table’s compass flower,

a lure pulled through the storm’s
           pale eye like a thread that reins
                  a needle’s stride, the weft

disguised, a beggar’s life line crossed
          by a silver track, a snail’s reversing
                 journey back, the sails

laundry on a broomstick mast
          that like a weathercock veers
                 until it meets fair weather:

your near hand, held fast
          in mine. You, beloved,
                 though not I, grow old.