The light that tumbles on my wooden shelf
Illuminates this humble little god,
Dressed only in a sheath of paper-gauze,
That tears beneath the pressure of my thumb.
Could this light be a memory divine,
Of Jove's sharp spear of lightning in a storm,
That raged in ancient days, and bred desire
Thrust in the earth, a knot of potent fire?
And now we have this simple little bulb,
Which bears the burden of the gods' own pleasure,
Submitting meekly to my hand and knife,
And yielding to my feast its strength and flavor.
a poem by Lauren Kindle