Exalted Company

Exalted Company


                                    The solitary are never alone.



Dining alone last night at Mexico Lindo,

Immersed in a book by Chesterton on Browning,

That learned, passionate poet who loved without limit

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, his Portuguese

--As who does not, once fallen under her spell?--

Awareness dawned of a somewhat impatient Presence,

Hovering in my vicinity.


I raised my eyes to see, above my head,

Through the branches of a sparse-leafed tree,

The peering, creamy eye of Cynthia,

Goddess of the moon--the same who loved

Endymion, now dreaming in his cave

On Latmos Mount, where she still visits him.


Rendered innocent by my book, I wondered

Whether her legendary fascination

With that immortal shepherd, ever young,

Had lately begun to wane; and her desire

Had turned, perchance, toward another dreamer

--A trifle more mature, but no less handsome--

Whom modesty forbids that I should name.


As sanity returned, I realized

My book, not I, was the object of her gaze

-Is there no printing press on Mount Olympus?--

The Moon was waiting for me to turn the page.


I raised my glass of wine to hers of nectar,

And sank back into that symbol-woven world

Where poets dwell--or used to--and we who care

Can loiter in the company of gods.


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                    Barra de Navidad, February 5, 2009.