Friend! This year the olives will be late, it has been cool. Cool? I’ve never sweltered like this. No. This is what cool means. We pick by hand, putting in ventilated boxes in the shade to press that very day. We know what Abbas Ibn Fadhl thought he knew
I wake to dark sky and heavy rain equal in an hour to 30 inches of snow. The emergency signal blares on the radio.Flash floods.People strandedon roofs of cars.Stay off the roads! House-bound, I pick upwhere I left offin Remarque, his bookabout the western frontmy father fought
KIA near Tchepone, Laos 1971 February’s tired handcloses around the lilies.The night air like silk,streams of still waterhold the rotation of starsin your eyes. You arefeather, black wingabove the wounds,above the stripped brownmountains and treesthat wave their bloody limbs in the constantlight of bodiesascending, the requiemof the night bird’s rising
