The egg, sunnyside up

and sizzling in its pan

reminds me of that picnic

we had on the Island of Rhodes.

Now, when the yolk breaks,

scattering incense,

I am in the Valley of Butterflies:

In an atmosphere redolent of anticipation, the air flutters;

There is yellow paint on a canvas of flowers

The coin is silvered.

There is a traditional rose on one side;

Helios gleams on the other.

I stoop to pick another branch

for the fire. As if for a portrait of immobility

she is posed by the edge of the water,

ruffling reflections like an old fisherman,

catching a classical temple in the net of her discernment.

The breeze from the Aegean is cool

but the fire warms my face on one side.

In the sunlight your hair glitters.

I turn the egg over.

It is almost ready.

Time for breakfast, I say.

She gets up and stretches her wings.

O Helios!

The fire sputters.