Father to Father, Sun to Son

Apollo is laughing as he watches the other gods
search the earth for this little spot in Bethlehem,
where he sits hidden with the young couple
and their child. He told the others this day would come;
the day when one man—a mere collection of flesh, blood
and bone—would usurp all of their titles and their temples
and push the old gods into nothingness.
Shake the earth while you can, Poseidon, Apollo muses,
and have fun throwing the last of your lightning, father.
It is all in vain now.
Apollo can feel himself growing weaker
by the moment—a pain akin to the sting left by Daphne’s
rejection or the grief he felt watching his favorite Hector
mutilated by Achilles. But he knows, as he always does,
that this pain will not be washed away with a cup of nectar
or a bowl of ambrosia. This is the touch of Death,
that hand his kin have feared forever. He pats the cold hand
on his shoulder and smiles. Apollo cannot determine
why the newborn can see him, but he can, and Apollo winks
at the beaming boy. He almost reminds me of myself.