William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

My Trust, My Hand

Cedar, juniper, green maple, red maple, pine. Arborvitae, crape myrtle, rhododendron, barberry, apricot. Blueberry, grape, fig, birch, fir. Grasses. Such, in varying numbers, constitute the perennials on this relatively average-sized suburban lot. Hosta, fern, moss. Lilac. Ivy. Rose. To arrive at a complete list, one would need to comb the area with notebook in hand, to look carefully, see calmly, patiently, making it the work of a lifetime, his own and theirs.

Paralyzed by comfort and convenience. Hustled by business. Blinded by technology. Distracted. Entertained. Flattered, tempted, taken in by advertising. Stuffed with white bread, poisoned by refined sugar, weighed down by frills, puffs, and factory-farmed meat. Neck-deep in a sea of packaging and garbage, polluting the atmosphere, drowning in debt.

Last night, under a starry sky laced with just a few clouds, the leaves of the cedar felt remarkably cool. I give you my trust. I give you my hand.

October 4, 2021


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