Blossoming
I am what I am — a star, the cherry tree — an outstretched hand. ~ [ 2115 ]
Archive for March 2026
Robin-Song
If sleep is life and death is waking up, the lightest dark and the darkest light is just enough. ~ [ 2114 ]
What of Now?
No TV or computer, only a piano and an old manual typewriter. All relationships were real: family, neighbors, friends; our chickens and our dogs. This was life on the farm in the Eighties before we moved to Oregon. Writing on paper, tapping out lines, learning songs on the piano. Working on the farm and in the garden. Glad when someone came by. Glad when they didn’t. And now — yes, […]
Currants
Red flowering currants, alive with bumblebees — that’s what a little warmth and sunlight will do, not forgetting, of course, the three hundred sixty-four days that led to this moment. Don’t you just love them? she said, and we stood talking for a while. My mother had dementia. I flew to Massachusetts every two to three months. There goes a hummingbird — the earth turning all the while. ~ [ […]
Walks and Whispers
Far to go, little to say — and the going, and the saying, are one. * Note: This might or might not be the first entry of a new section. We shall see. I’ve also enabled comments; that decision, too, remains up in the air. Then again, aren’t we all? ~ [ 2111 ]
The Little Mirror
Once upon a time, there was a little mirror. I think I’ll be a lake today, he said, and began to shimmer. A big white cloud floated overhead. What have we here? the cloud said, Looking at her reflection in the bright water, I’ve never seen anything so lovely. And all at once the lake became a mirror again. It made him feel helpless, and, truth be told, a little […]
Cedar Silence
Fourteen weeks of daily early-morning running: suddenly it sounds ridiculous — about as ridiculous as publishing daily blog entries — as if I really have that much to say, or there’s that much that truly needs to be said, and which might not be better and more fully expressed by silence — or by walking across the street and shaking my neighbor’s hand for no special reason, other than the […]
Ancient Mariner
I finished cleaning the library. Once again, the internet has come to feel like an albatross around the neck of this ancient mariner. The room measures about nineteen feet by twelve feet. The way the shelves are arranged, there are small rooms within the room, little private corners. This laptop also feels like an albatross. You’ve read Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner, I hope, and seen the accompanying artwork […]
Rain Says
To new themes, and wise ways, the rain says, to glad trees. To dead men, in new graves, the fool says, amid buds, and green leaves. ~ [ 2107 ]
Without Words
Yes, I love writing without words — but I love your face even more. ~ [ 2106 ]
William Michaelian 