Olympia in Spring

In this stone still valley,
naked heroes basked.
Sun shadowed upright columns
in red poppied grass.

Now the sky is drab. 
Olive leaves make the only rustle.
Neither breath or sighs 
stir imagery.
 
Fallen stone in grass
erodes the past,
crumbling forever 
all mystery.

The past is gone. 
The past is cold.

Yet, once my love 
came into my arms
in the dumb white dawn 
of a marble morning.

And now that love, 
fresh in March wind,
recolumns the valley, 
repoppies Spring.