On Virgil's Birthday Poem by Scott Eden

I creep out at dawn,
the Ides of old October,
to see the waning moon go celebrant
across the sky in Venus' footsteps,
"Daphnis, the guest of Heaven,
with wondering eyes",
It is Virgil's birthday, he is
two thousand and ninety years
of agelessness today.
Few care.

I got cold in the dark garden
trying to photograph elusive lights:
Venus a smear of whiteness,
the moon a doubled image
like two old denarii. Phone cables
dangle in the dark:
my birthday card
for Publius Vergilius Maro
is in ruins. Few would care.
I do.

And I am cold.
I will go in and find my
little red Loeb,
Eclogues and Georgics,
and between the covers embed myself
in the familiar glow of
his antique dawns.