I am looking at the long-forgotten amphora,
Dust on its sides, its hips are wide,
No, I haven't forgotten you my long-lost friend, you are as perfect as ever,
Who put so much work into your shape, who chose the color scheme worthy of the high Olympus,
Your left side is matted to match the handle, and your right side glees of orange, reflecting the
fullness of an elaborate cherry palette on the inner side of the thin neck,
I see the hound shape raising from your depth, he is jumping to his master, who is a nymph or a goddess contemplating the veil prepared by the Arachna, the greatest of human weavers they said,
who lost only to the goddess herself, never did she gave up, forever bitter....
I see the young breeze clouds gathering on the west, they are foretelling a good beach day,
and the spider web of the phosphoric threads is there too,
Your sculptor was a man, an old man with young hands, he listened for the wind, he smiled on the adversity, and he had his wine when he wanted to,
His many years of artful concentration made it easy to create the shape worthy of the high Olympus,
...as though he knew I would be watching it on this summer day, and thinking of him and of you.
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