It's those Aegean dawns,
the waiting ship,
the setting moon,
the promise shimmering
along the eastern rim,
where islands rise
mysterious,
each more alluring
than the last;
the paths where soon
my feet will tread,
where, awaiting
leaves and flesh,
winter fig limbs loom
and weave coarse mesh;
the craggy steeps,
the bleating goats,
their chinking hosts
of bells sharp-flat,
the kids, soft-lipped,
child-eyed gazelles;
the sharp accents
from stony hills
with oregano in their clefts;
the air's god-given clarity
quickening with pulsing bees
when April sings
anemones and chlorophyll:
it's these I miss...