William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings


When we set out in the cold this morning, the body said, Are we sure? We didn’t answer, of course. And when we finished our run, with our feet wet and warm, the body again said, Are we sure? We climbed the steps, let ourselves in. Took off our wet cap, dried our sandals, and propped them against the wall above the furnace vent. Coffee? we said. Gladly, was the reply. And we’ve been smiling ever since.

Snow in Portland, two to three inches. Snow in some of the higher, hillier areas in Salem. Fresh, clean air with a trace of wood smoke, the racing clouds lit in the distance by the city lights.

We ran at a quicker pace this morning, right from the start, and from there picked up speed. Home again, home again, jiggity-jig. Home the whole way, past maple and fig. Home down the hill, home ’cross the street, home ’round the fir branch, home o’er the puddle. Home to the Rime of the Ancient Mariner, illustrated by Gustave Doré. Snow on the Coleridge, past Samuel and Taylor. Everything serious, everything play.

Water, water, everywhere, nor any drop to drink. Are we sure? No. Let us think. And when the thinking is done, and all thought is dispersed, we return to the street, and we run, run, run.


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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet

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