William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

The Patience of Ferns

Four miles of dusty trails, with side trips down to what is now a very low-running stream. No clouds, no fog, no mist, no smoke. Far off, on the other side of the canyon, the great echoing voice of a raven. The talk now is of rain, and the patience of ferns.

Bare feet. Thirty-nine degrees. Even in drought, we outlive our own death.

September 16, 2021

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