Canvas 620 — Reality
Reality A love note from the sky that begins with I, followed by my reply. December 3, 2019 [ 589 ]
Archive for December 2019
Canvas 1,245 — The Quest
If I have any wish or dream at all, it is to know at death what I knew when I was born; the quest is love; the rest is now. December 2, 2019 [ 588 ]
Given
A winter afternoon spent trying this word and that word and erasing them both, until the room I am in is given to darkness — even death agrees — if not with the method, then at least with the progress. Given Suddenly a ripe plum and how her sweet flesh aches in the mouth in memory of melted snow running down a country road [ 587 ]
A Sturdy Leaf
Memory’s a sturdy leaf — sycamore, say, or valley oak, placed beneath a sheet of grade school paper fleck’d and grain’d, and a crayon in your hand — rubb’d across its ribs and veins, it surfaces in your chosen color — and all you love begins again — father, mother, supper table, open kitchen window — and somewhere, off in the distance, carry’d nigh by the divine providence of dust […]
Winter Walk
Was it the childhood study of bird tracks that first led him to writing, Or the sacred marks his mother made in her crusts and loaves? And then there was the night sky, with its patient verse of constellations. It might have been those. Whatever it meant to be alone . . . He loved it well and tried to write just like them. Then it snowed . . . […]
Canvas 1,244 — November 27, 2019
[ 584 ]
Canvas 1,244
By the Falling Star
When you see young children living and working their beautiful miracles, do you smile and say, They are something at that age, or, We are something at that age? They, or we — the difference, I think, is a great one, and tells much about you. The same might be asked of how you view those who are far ahead of you in years. Because the very young and the […]
The Gathering
Out from a room heavy with light and oppressive with talk and laughter, into the sweet chocolate night, the wood smoke, and fog — and no one knows me when I return; but my body is familiar to them, my hat and my hair — they recognize my clothes and are satisfied. Maybe that’s all I was to them before? A ghost, a mirror, nothing more? [ 582 ]
Paradise Lost
I was dreaming in the forest when someone stopped to count my rings. Their paradise lost, I said, my touch means everything. November 24, 2019 [ 581 ]
Canvas 321 — In the Fullness of Time
To say with dying breath, Yes, and write no less. November 23, 2019 [ 580 ]
William Michaelian 