William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Nothing Like Anything

A couple of mornings ago I dug up the garden space. It’s been a very cool, wet April, one of about half a dozen of the coolest and wettest on record. The soil is in wonderful condition, a joyful fact confirmed by an abundance of fat, healthy worms. With luck, despite a continued chance of rain in the forecast, we’ll be able to plant a few things this week or the next. The soil is warming; this year’s sunflowers have begun to sprout.

After a heavy bloom, the apricot tree shed about three-fourths of its crop, likely due to the erratic weather and many brushes with frost. The tree itself looks good, and the fruit that did set has already sized considerably.

We heard recently that much of the grape crop in the valley was ruined by frost.

Having finished James Baldwin’s essays, I’m now reading and enjoying Richard Wilbur’s translations of Molière.

A few days ago, I moved a chair and cleared a little work-and-reading space on the floor. And so reading and writing is now also a nice physical workout. There’s nothing like a spine-straight, cross-legged position at four in the morning to make one feel fresh and alert. To stretch and to rest, I go out for a run. There’s nothing like that either. Really, unless one is lazy about it, there’s nothing like anything.


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Categories: Sweet Sleep and Bare Feet

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