Dawn, and Minerva murmurs from the riverbank.
She's watching scrolls of blue mist drag the lake,
unfurling remnants of a drowned world in its wake:
a glint of fish-tail scales, the torn leaves of love letters,
the bloated bulk of a plastic bag.
She takes a piece of each and logs them in her book
of things she took from history, picked from the pockets
of time. Each has a story to tell: a singed feather; an empty
snail shell. The twisted limb of a tree. Each sings
with its own broken flutings, its own fractured poetry.
When the rivulet where we are borne and met dredges up
the dawn's tribute, Minerva's on the edge, waiting to pluck
these fragments of convoluted memories from the deep.
She marvels at each scientific discovery found as the night
bites down on day, and the shattered sounds of time travel
each relic makes in sleep.
* * *
Alternative title: Of Natural History
Minerva was the Roman goddess of wisdom, poetry, science, learning and magic, and she was credited as being the inventor of music.
Again, I'm going to have to ask you to please see this in it's proper format here on my dA.
More mythology poems: