It is the season of tiny spiders, when it’s nearly impossible to pass through the yard without walking into their webs and finding them in my hair and beard. Those I notice, I help out onto a nearby leaf so they can continue about their business. Those I don’t, crawl out later on their own, or I comb them into the bathroom sink. A few days ago, one crawled from […]
You bring nothing to the deep, dark woods, and leave with less; even stones confess it’s good to see you; yes, it’s good to see you in your summer dress. July 16, 2019 [ 451 ]
I use words to show none are needed. And I smile. “Brevity Loves Company” Recently Banned Literature, February 4, 2018 Brevity As each petal is wise in the purpose and symmetry of a flower, so must be the words we choose, each an action with a will to bloom. Be brave, be brief, beware the power you wield; thoughtless use is profound abuse. Brevity is depth of character, the […]
This old battlefield is more than a place.
It is a face. It is grace.
Canvas 1,237 — July 13, 2019
No One Asks the Soldiers
When they’re dead,
they all look so familiar.
Songs and Letters, March 20, 2008
[ 449 ]
Two years — since then, who knows how many times I’ve seen her grown children looking for worms in the wet grass after a rain. “Is that the man? Do you remember what Mama said?” “Yes. She said, You don’t have to be afraid of him.” All of This the nights are growing longer and the robin watching from her nest in the fig tree leaves fall in a […]
In a breath, we greet each other from far-flung corners of the world. As if these primitive computers were the only means at our disposal. “Learning to Fly” Recently Banned Literature, December 13, 2010 Between Friends The mind asks, “Have I really made you faster than I am?” And the computer replies, “I am the mind. But the mind is much more than I am.” [ 447 ]
Oh, the things I break into dazzling little pieces. Oh, the faith you have in rainbows. “Love Story” Poems, Slightly Used, February 3, 2011 My Second Language English is my second language, Earth my mother tongue. Near a wild rose on a goat track, An avalanche of sun. A blind afternoon, Guessing about love. I said, “The map is torn.” You said, “Yes. But not ruined.” [ 446 ]
As mirrors, we serve as invitations to the depth we contain. To observe completely, the observer must be absent. But not nonexistent. Let him be outside, admiring the flowers. Better yet, let him be the flowers. She was a snowstorm. He was a pair of little bare feet. They met in the street. [ 445 ]
There are two houses in the neighborhood with star jasmine growing on a trellis by the front door. The plants are in full bloom, and their scent’s so strong, walking through it is like being in a dense fog. Indeed, it seems odd the particles aren’t visible, for one’s spirit-ship is immediately lost on the jasmine sea of it. And yet, passing by in the evening, or early in the […]
The lilies in Goose Lake are now so vibrant and dense, it’s impossible to distinguish their hunger and thirst, their vital processes, their sap, their marrow, from the water that supports them. One is quite literally the other. The same can be said of the atmosphere immediately above: they have taken quiet possession of the gentle, unsuspecting sky, as a child its mother when she bends over the cradle. The […]
William Michaelian 
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