I walked early yesterday morning in a heavy mist, grateful the ocean had come for a visit.
In August, with the grapes ripening, the peaches rising, the berries falling, and the tomatoes fat on the vine, I feel as conscious as a bee winging home to the hive, bearing his load of pollen. I feel as sad and as serious as a clown’s smile. I feel joy.
The mist gave way to rain, moving aside to let the bigger drops through, as if a veil were tenderly parted to reveal the face of the divine — these for the rose leaves, these for the fig, these for the little toy soldiers. . . .
August 7, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: August, Bees, Blackberries, Clowns, Consciousness, Diaries, Figs, Grapes, Journals, Joy, Mist, Peaches, Rain, Tomatoes, Walking
William Michaelian 