I am reading Aristotle’s Politics
at my kitchen table
with the morning light
spilling across my coffee.
I imagine the great philosopher
also at his kitchen table,
with a hard loaf of bread
and perhaps some olive oil,
considering whether there are
seven types of courts, or perhaps eight.
Light from the same sun
reflects off of the oil in its shallow saucer
and he pauses his logical progress
to think of Plato, some years gone.
This is not in the pages I am reading,
not directly, at least.
but my mind has been running
down the footpaths he first walked
and have since been trod by kings and monks
and all manner of forgotten readers.
By this miracle of written word
I am more inside his ordered psyche
than if he were sitting across from me
And asking me to pass the salt.
No comments:
Post a Comment