The Death of Aristotle

The philosopher stands at the sea coast

He weeps for lack of knowing why the tides

Should rise and fall and rise again. He strides

The shoreline looking for answers. Most

problems could be solved, it seemed, by some close

observation, and some thought; doubt subsides

and gives way to an answer. Reason guides

or had until today-the Fickle Ghost.

He sits nauseous, watching the waves: they flow

and ebb and flow, and rise and crash. He falls,

face first, into the sand. A whispered “no”

echoes in his ear. He rises and calls

out into the sea. With sharp shell in hand

He cuts and spills his humors on the sand.