William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Life, Death, Fall

This morning I finished Edward O. Wilson’s Naturalist.

After lunch I read in Emerson’s journal about the death of his little boy, Waldo.

Two months ago, I ordered Library of America’s forthcoming two-volume edition, Molière: The Complete Richard Wilbur Translations.

Today I removed the plants from the pots, barrels, and planters behind the house. I also cleared the gutters, which were full to the brim with birch leaves and fir cones.

In some of the pots and planters, I found walnuts that had sprouted, planted there by squirrels.

The skeletal remains of the sunflowers are still occasionally visited by the birds.

The grape leaves have all yellowed. Most of them have fallen. The apricot, too, has let go of more than half its leaves. The blueberry bush is red and has lost some of its leaves as well.

The grass is lush and green from the rain. In places it is several inches deep. The birdbath is full of rainwater and birch leaves.

Two days ago, just home from Goose Lake, we took a picture of the fig tree.

October 30, 2021


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