William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

The Rain and the Dead

A smidgen of rain. Dry under the trees. The timeless scent of crushed dry leaves. It sounds almost like a recipe. And it is, for paradise, for calm, for peace, for sanity. Where have the lines gone, the edges, borders, and boundaries? To graveyards, every one. Another leaf is down.

 
The Rain and the Dead

We can count storms
but not raindrops,
wars, but not the dead

falling thick on barren ground,

and we think of them as one,
don’t we, the rain and the dead,

as if in plural they
were something whole,

and we are almost comforted,

but we step among them
gingerly, because somehow
we still know them all,

the insistent drops of rain,
the uncomplaining dead,

somehow, we still know.

Songs and Letters, March 13, 2007

Categories: Songs and Letters

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