Poem 7, June 7

On  Poros, a Greek Island

From the second floor balcony

of the hotel, I look out across the azure sea

toward the mountain chain, not as tall

as the mountains of eastern Kentucky,

& one the towering Rockies would dwarf.

I’m looking for a poem

in the form locals call the sleeping lady,

but I do not find it.

I do not find it in the young couple,

walking hand in hand along the wharf.

I see it in the ripples of a sea so clear

that its rocky, volcanic sediment bottom

seems to be only inches beneath the small

fishing boat anchored off shore.

I see it in the hand of the absent painter

whose aesthetic eye visualized how to create

a canvas with movement full

of the suppleness & grace of a sprightly

young dancer center stage,

the one whose contortions takes the breath away.