The Greek Gods

Look: the trees are not themselves
today: the boughs / the needles /
the cons do not bend to slap me.
Cattails, in lake Como of seaweed:
of rainbowed fish and blue colour
that is not really blue. I know that.
The lake looks like that—that blue
thistle—because of the wavelength
of the reflecting light. It is not
because of the sky or the Greek
Gods who, in ancient times, drank
from chalices and—fed—cupped,
loosened to the earth the white
wine we know, have known,
all this time, as rain and more rain,
that water we drink from taps
the way bees drink nectar.
We have known and—have imagined.
How wrong we were.