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,
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.
The fire sputters.