Panama   Time is an isthmus — the narrowest strip of land between oceans. In one direction, an irrevocable past — shipwrecks and sea monsters, words marooned on the tip of the tongue, never to be spoken. In the other, tomorrow and its unreachable horizon. We stare out from one beach, then the other, reluctant to begin the hard business of exploring the continents of now, north and south — the complete moment is just too big, and so we cheat ourselves, trade today for what is gone. The problem is innate — forever doesn’t fit our monkey minds. Eternity’s unlit.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont January 2023