See north of Athens, that area stained
like unpolished amethyst, its curling
body a drowsy dragon yawning. Rain
turned it that color, halted the hurling
flames. They devoured some four thousand acres
of Mount Parnitha’s firs and pines, once deep
emerald, like the flowing forest cape
surrounding the serpent. Cinders in steep
crevices still glow like snakes’ eyes at night,
but lie far from dry wood and pose no threat.
Karavola, the summit, felt the plight
of smoke and ashen air, but no fire. Let
me show you the Acropolis: that lone
southern gray mass seeming piled like crushed bone.
Roger Armbrust
August 12, 2007
