This is my only notebook. Search the house high and low, and you’ll not find another — unless it’s my body; which, familiar as it seems, is really a record of what the stars said, a long, long time ago.
How I love the short days; the long nights; the cold-dark intimacy of winter. The sun’s a pin on a gray lapel.
Move as lightly as you can through this world. Remember: spirit is matter; matter is spirit.
We hear it said, Be not like the sheep. I say, Make use of my wool.
December 13, 2019
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Diaries, Flesh and Spirit, Journals, Poems, Poetry, Winter
William Michaelian 