Childish notes — some things never change. And some things, are not things, at all.
Summer in the vineyard, a small boy sitting under a vine, hidden by all the other vines.
Thinking of it still, of the stillness, still that still, nigh sixty-eight years old, in full.
One breath in all — one moment, one grand revelation, one sensation, of being.
Alive, blue jeans to the ground, the same whisper then as now.
Bill? No, no, long before then. Long after, too.
The voice so low. No name to tell.
Not even Sparrow.
Flew? Flow?
Oh . . .
.
[ 1939 ]
Categories: Infinite Intimate
Tags: Aging, Blue Jeans, Breath, Child and Man, Childhood, Letters, Memory, Names, Notes, Our Old Farm, Poems, Revelation, Sparrows, Stillness, Summer, Vineyards, Voices, Whispers
William Michaelian 