by Christos Polydorou
The cages of mazes
raises the question
of a cold-gripped
winter gone somehow.
too is the holly, and
the hard seedless ground
below the ice, and the shadows have become
shawl-less, and the shores of these isles
are swept with shells and bird-bones,
some feathers. Some say angel -feathers.
we deny them,
the startling daffodils
are thus yellow, so they dance!
never timidly, nor shyly, neither coyly.
Unfoil the hydrofoil from each vacillating
forgotten and lucid dream,
with pears to spare. Together we released
the scream from inside the lacquered drawer knob
like Alexander the great,
cutting at the knot. Some say hope,
some say succumbing to the paradox.
Even so, all the mazes