Nine Songs for Dido and Aeneas

1
The day opens, bland
and milky-blue. A woman
is looking out at a rain-washed garden.
In her thought a wooden flute and
spice trees, and the sun
flashing off the bracelet at her wrist.
She is no longer waiting for something to happen.

Her quiet face observes
the evidence of an order
older than Greece, in whose protection
the courtyard holds the trees, and
all her memories stir as gently
as leaves that flicker on the wall below her:

A stranger already knocks at the gate of the palace.

2
After Europe, Dido, all winter
the days rushed through me
...