Narcissus and Canute

Precariously leaning, like a flower uprooted by gods,

over the fountain where his own image refracts the pain,

Narcissus strains to recollect the rain

of springtime and summer’s winsome tales:

fresh gusts, new shakings of the sky, unbalance

and perturb, yet passion scurries into roots

and tries to lengthen hairs, but logic’s dance

is regular and superficial--and like Canute’s

command, draws in the tides of winter, unjamming sands,

granule by granule.  So lovers loosen dreams

and loyalties collapse.  So perfect strands

of gossamer stretch out against the streams,

and snap.  So certainties inside the soul

no longer hold.  The leaves grown heavy fold.