William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

The Wanderer

Twenty-five degrees. A pleasant run. I did have on a light pair of gloves. But the feet were free, and the toes, you see, came happily along.

The wanderer roves from east to west,

in his wake the icy wind — he gathers stars

in his tattered sack, shows his back

then lights his lamp again.


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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet

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