In working on a poem, I love to revise. Lots of younger poets don’t enjoy this, but in the process of revision I discover things.
I rewrote the ending of Farewell To Arms, the last page of it, 39 times before I was satisfied.
Half my life is an act of revision.
In a minute there is time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
Half my life is an act of revision, the rest is parenting in heatwave after wave. Hooray for mini-escapes and the muse-like qualities of garden fountains, crepe myrtles at midday and imagination spurred by ocean for all those in attendance of the waves.
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