Mortal Summer

The cave they slept in, halfway down Olympus

On the eastern slope, toward Asia, whence the archangels

Even then were coming—even then

Bright Michael, and tall Gabriel, and the dark-faced

Raphael, healer of men’s wounds, were flying,

Flying toward the ship all ten would take—

The cave they slept in sparkled as their eyelids

Opened; burned as they rose and stood; hummed

And trembled as the seven, the beautiful gods

Gazed at each other, wonderful again.

The sweet sleep of centuries was over,

If only as in dream; if only a mortal

Summer woke them out of endless death.

The grey eyes of Athene, flashing slowly,

Demanded of Hermes more than he could tell.

“It was not I that roused you.” Hermes pondered,

Tightening his sandals. “All at once,

And equally, we woke. Apollo there—”

The musical man-slayer listened and frowned—

“And Ares, and foam-loving Aphrodite

Yawned at the very instant Artemis did,

With me, and swart Hephaestus.” The lame smith,

Stroking his leather apron, blinked at the others,

Worshipful of brilliance. Even in Ares,

Scowling, and more quietly in her

The huntress, whose green robe the animals knew,

He found it; and of course in Aphrodite,

Wife to him once, he found it, a relentless

Laughter filling her eyes and her gold limbs.

“It was not I,” said Hermes.

Thunder sounded,

Weakly and far away. And yet no distance

Wrapped it. It was here in the lit cavern:

Here, or nowhere. And the trembling seven

Turned to the rock that sealed a deeper room.

There Zeus, there Hera sat, the feasted prisoners

Of a still greater person, one who changed

The world while there they mourned, remembering Ida.

Some day they too would sleep, but now weak thunder

Witnessed their remnant glory; which appalled

As ever the proud seven, until Hermes

Listened and leaned, then spoke.