I don’t write poetry.  Well, not really, but a poem did show up around last Easter and another one showed up now, referencing the myth of Leda and the swan.  It’s the damnedest thing.

About Leda    

Leda went ‘round the world at large
In her cottage by the sea
And heard three Fates with a broken star
Singing a homily.

The first spun stones from empty air
The second measured sand
The third cut lines like strangled swears
In Leda’s faultless hand.

And so when Zeus the swan doth come
To tickle Leda’s palm,
She keeps that furtive writing mum;
Rough secrets from the gods.

It’s hard to say if maid saw God
Within that mortal thread;
Or if she executed fraud.
Tomorrow, Troy plays dead.

You are reading a post from Matter Notes, Karen Michalson’s blog on creativity as spirituality and the war on the humanities. Her most recent novel, The Maenad’s God, is available on Amazon.

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