None Left

The odd handle,
esoteric in its silhouette,
protruding from one angle
and imploding from another,
the Mother/Father God
of all the literati,
baths in its semantic
stare down,
an icy seduction
and a tongue
that whips the foam
from the lips
of a frothing
critic,
and delivers fully formed,
Athena,
and her trove
of hermeneutic henchmen:  
Grasping at straws,
the last woodsman
clears the sightline
and lays
across his trap.

She will have none of it and spoils his fun
with remonstrations of how the earth
slinks back to claim the light
by virtue of the moon's colorless being.

The fallen tree
blocks no horizon
and the argument
misses like an arrow
let loose
too soon.

Still, she picks him up,
and travels the distance
of a burdened
limp, and his cares
are cured
by her fingers.

runningturtle87