I was a lucky child; my parents neither directed nor censored my reading. So imagine my bliss, my rapture at stumbling across Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey at the age of ten or eleven in the tiny, one-room Crapaud Library. The extended similes with which those works are laced fascinated me endlessly, and rooted themselves deeply into my brain. And now, for the second time in a week, memories of Homer have delighted me while working on poems. Maybe I’m in my second childhood already.
A Brief Homeric Goodbye to the Moon
As a mother’s thumb
rubs a smudge from her child’s face,
so the passing month—
spitting cold rain when needed—
scrubs the moon from the sky