This is a Wednesday that feels so much like a Friday, one is sure Sunday is near. But what if I’d never seen a calendar, and had no idea what they were? What if I didn’t know names had been given to the days of the week? For me there would be no week, no month, no year, only seasons. There would be the kind that are short, which pass […]
Somewhere, between halo and head, The sky peeks in, And — Oh! it says, how sad. [ 820 ]
A few years ago we brought home a stained-glass birdbath to hang in the backyard. It’s shallow and about the size of a small dinner plate, and though it has since become somewhat discolored, it’s still pretty with the light shining through it and onto the ivy below. I keep it full and fresh through the warm part of the year, then take it down late in the fall. Whenever […]
Is it a peach, or love out of reach? While the ladder grows roots, A bird makes holes in the fruit. [ 818 ]
The tragedy of opinion is that it is mistaken for truth. The tragedy of truth is that it is mistaken for opinion. July 25, 2017 Colophon and here facing east on a maple leaf a blue dragonfly passed the night Recently Banned Literature, July 25, 2017 [ 817 ]
A profusion of Queen Anne’s Lace along both sides of the road, offset with patches of tall yellow flowers in bloom — whatever their name, or names, they are the same we see on our walks by the river, and which the bees love. In this gentle-warm atmosphere, one might think, or perhaps only wish, that the railroad tracks’ sole purpose is the transporting of dreams. From north to south […]
Light is relentless. Darkness is sin. But which is which, my friend? Where does one end and the other begin? Sorrow is beauty. Humor is sad. But in the beginning, that wasn’t my plan. And Job said, Begin again. [ 815 ]
I moved two tiny oak-sprouts from the garden into clay pots today. One was growing next to the six-foot redwood stake at the end of a tomato row; the other was near the base of our vine. For now I’m calling them the vineyard oak and the tomato oak, the latter at the risk of a little clumsiness for the double-o vowels. The main roots on both were surprisingly deep. […]
August days are a recipe for longing: they bring scented dust and dew, the first nocturnal kiss upon veined leaves that are beginning to resemble my mother’s hands. Though much of summer lies ahead, autumn is creeping in, feigning patience with vineyard rows, gently coaxing the fruiting bough, Soft the yellows, purples, reds, soft the folds upon her unmade bed, soft the light on her faded gown, My mother holds […]
What grew here before this became part of a city? What lived here? Who lived here? How did they live? How do I live? Does my life honor what was lost or destroyed? To put it another way, do I live for profit, or for love? July 21, 2020. Evening. [ 812 ]
William Michaelian 