Don’t you wonder how they decide
which days end golden, and which dark?
The color of the skies come and gone?
What fickle whims decide it all.
It is enough to make you believe
in the Heseperidies, young nymphs around the fires,
hormones raging from love and anger
and back again, all in an instant.
About this poem.
I wrote this poem around this painting, The Hesperidies, by Jeronemo Elespie which I saw at Mass MoCA a year or so ago, when we could still go to museums. Sometimes a painting haunts me that way.
In Greek mythology, the Hesperides are the nymphs of evening and golden light of sunsets.