William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Yield

It seemed almost rude last night to close the front door while a cricket was singing just outside. And yet a short while later, ready for sleep, I could still hear it, steady and measured, through the adjacent bedroom window. In less than a minute, I could no longer distinguish my heartbeat and breath from its rhythm and song. And I thought, the first and last word in all human language must be yield.

And beneath this dry leaf, my love, we will make our home.

Categories: New Poems & Pieces

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