Saturn is everything, but I snagged a little corner of him in a poem that Ekphrastic Review ran last week:
They would dub his the Golden Age
which he'd predicted and molded
but didn't contemplate.
Even gods can’t quite imagine their ends.
Even now, as usual, I can't help but re-write:
They would dub his age Golden / as he'd predicted and molded / but didn't see whole...
Hmmmm.
/ but never saw whole
/ but didn't fathom...?
Good afternoon.
