When I was 24, I wrote that I should "wake the ever present into words."
Ten books later, I wrote:
"only those who dare
the no-space between
humility and pride,
escape the cruelties of time."
Warships are streaming across the Atlantic, heading for the Mediterranean on a savage mission. I am behind a stone wall on Folegandros, out of the wind. April green. Crimson poppies and white daisies with yellow centers wave modestly. On Earth Day, I will be 77.
"The present is its own reward."
Greece / 2018
