APPRECIATION of a PHOTOGRAPH
of THIRA, GREECE

There are gardens and there are gardens, and then there are gardens...

moments when all the music of growing is silent... when the march of

the sun comes to a halt and loiters among the leaves, leans against

the wall...  There are gardens among the hours when sand slips through

the fingers, becomes lodged between the toes, when the skin of the

thigh is happy growing brown and the salt hisses in the stones and

in the air near the sea...  Where is my shadow going among these

strange grasses... it has left me lying on my bed, it has fled to

the rows and rows of laughing buds to converse with things invisible...

I rise, walk to the window and see my shadow running over the hills

like a runaway horse, rolling down the dunes like a young dog...

coming to rest in the embrace of these three trees like a sultry

panther...  O there are gardens and there are gardens, and then there

are gardens... wounded groves where grief might hide its weary rags,

where the rain calls the names of all the healed... now the clouds

have a music all their own, now the hours have a fable for the even-

ing fires, now the night does not seem so fearful and everything

human has a harmony for its own sake and there is no violence any-

where... sleep sweet winds sleep.


Christmas card for D. Garet