Unknowing,
they come in sickness still,
settling tired shoulders
against stone-ribbed earth,
feeling the swing of her redeeming
mysteries;
soul-warmed by sun-veined marble
under searching skies,
soothed by the aromatic pines and
scented thyme,
they acquiesce in miracles.
From gold-hung distances and deeps
of time
they hear the secret striking of
Promethean fire,
and hope re-kindles in their
straining eyes;
the coins of truth, of
counterfeit, ring unmistakable
in visionary air,
and sorrowed men know once again
the meaning of integrity.
The gentle serpents of Asklepios
still thread mazed minds,
still to the heart bring healing
touch of tongues.
Here yet is sanctuary.
(October,
1986)
