Ethos

Because we are different from our dogs that leave
their scent on white fence posts; the raised hind leg,
the pioneering boast. Because we stand upright, wonder
at vaulted ceilings, songs in frescoes: A lifeless man
sculpted in plaster and paint, lifting his flaccid hand to –
what? An animating touch, a spark, self-understanding?
Or a patriarch called to brave a flood, reclining like a
Roman river god, not from too much wine, but from such
a familiar forgetfulness of our limited time. Because we build
pyramids with steps: discernment following the climb.

Logos

Because Athens never really fell. A radiant vase unearthed;
centuries of burnt clay covering its storied face: a ring of epic
battles – centaurs, half-man half-beast at the throat of a cool-
headed Greek. The choice still the same: Nature untamed or
the compass calibrated? The watchful peeling back to the urn’s
Attic shape – not with landscape trenchers, but dental picks.
Precision tools. A slow-moving, pointing trowel, a sieve.
Because of the mindful coupling of powdery pieces: specs
of gold from a goddess’s shield, a warrior’s bones too brittle
to touch. The true story so reliant upon a delicate brush.

Pathos

Because the healer is the wounded one. Chiron, casualty
of friendly fire, Heracles’s poisonous arrow: Sentenced,
in his immortal state to a life of unfathomable sorrow –
A perfect medic for the would-be hero: Jason, adrift
at sea, until a centaur more adrift steels him: Push on,
pass up the Sirens, regain a stolen throne. Asclepius,
protégé, healer celebrity, and yet so alone – except
for the healer more alone: Chin up, the physician’s heart
cannot be helped; tend to your soul. Achilles, fed innards
of boars to awaken a warrior core; to quiet his ego: bear
marrow. Because for the life worth remembering
the cure is an errant arrow.