“‘My time will come,’ you say to yourself, but how can you know whether or not your time has not already come and gone? Perhaps one afternoon on the veranda in Panama, with the Barbadians whetting their sickles on the hill below, the Chinese garden green, the noise of the breakers from beyond the hill, the crochet in your lap, and the cool room shuttered and the sheeted bed, perhaps that was your time.”
– Lousie Bogan,
from “Out of All Moments Forever,”
in the Journals and Memoir section of A Poet’s Prose