William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Ten Horses, No Sails

I haven’t raked the leaves from under the maples, or those that are piled deep beneath the big rhododendron by the front door. What’s living in, on, and under them plays a far more important role in the local ecology than any so-called neatness I might achieve. The walk is swept. The flowerbed is ready for spring. That’s enough tidiness. Behind the house, the irises are pushing, and an abundance of fresh tips are poking up out of the mossy ground where one wouldn’t expect them. The daffodils are starting to bloom. The crocuses too. The bluebells are waking from their sweet sleep, and the hyacinths and tulips. Yesterday afternoon, the temperature was over sixty degrees. Walkers were out in short sleeves. And lately there have been large flights of geese, loud and low in their great aerodynamic angles, their wake transparent, invisible.

My father’s old boat — ten horses, no sails.


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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet

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4 replies

  1. And we on the other side of the world begin to think about the falling of leaves to herald the end of summer, while you’re welcoming the spring.

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  2. My grandmother always believed that every living creature deserved to be given its due place and respect. Even the tiniest ant wasn’t to be harmed as its life was as precious as that of a human’s. 🙂

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  3. Beautiful. Without compassion, there is no wisdom. Your grandmother had both.