They have thought upon this log
since before Socrates
climbed into the light,
or Plato
settled for silence,
or Aristotle
brought out his bottles
and labels.
Each crawls up on a deadhead
with the other philosophers.
Dull as old coins, old helmets,
they do not speak,
but there are subtle
inflections of the throat,
and eyes, half-lidded,
which stare at a question,
and a mouth that holds onto
a conclusion.
Each day adds to their library
a reflection of twigs,
a silver razzle of minnows,
or a new shade of green.
Though their council is old,
no one has spoken.
Sunlight like moss
heavy on his tongue,
their chairman is still
clearing his throat.
Robert Siegel