Having been granted this breath, I would be embarrassed to ask for anything more. Without it, there is nothing more. With it, as familiar as it seems, this glorious early morning summer scent is more than I can describe or define. It describes and defines me. It is the cosmic fruit, honey, and grain that sustains. It is the means and the way. Now, if only there is something I might offer in return — imagine an idea that small.
July 11, 2021
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You Can See It All From Here
What happens to pain, when the one who felt it is gone?
A shovel, planted firmly, in the ground.
Your thoughts are warm, familiar.
They are exactly where the wind has blown.
In helpless disarray. In uncombed rows.
You set them down. You see them sown. You are alone.
AM radio. Breakfast poem. The old gas stove.
Linoleum. Wash tub. Razor. Mirror.
You can see it all from here, the vineyard and the marigolds.
The sun goes down. Someone in, someone out.
What happens in the dark, is the lightest thing you know.
And then, your last breath . . . and . . . oh!
Recently Banned Literature, June 2, 2017
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces, Recently Banned Literature
Tags: Breath, Death, Diaries, Gratitude, Ideas, Journals, Memory, Morning, My Father, Our Old Farm, Pain, Poems, Poetry
William Michaelian 