Up and down, over rocks, our feet are covered with dust. Here’s a raven. A flower. Moss. Miles we walk. Down to the stream, out to the middle on high, dry stone. Pools, mirrors, circles, nothing square, no edges. To wash our feet here is to bathe them in infinite space. At home, we carry water to the blueberry and mint. Infinite grace. . [ 1803 ]
O, to read our autobiographies to the end, and arrive at our original perfection! . [ 1802 ]
We threw our words overboard, only to find that they’d become anchors, and that our ship wouldn’t move; then they became fish: we cast a great net: around it they swam, and through; they leap’d to the heavens, were shimmering stars in the blue; then one by one they fell; they’re falling still; and each that lands is true. . [ 1801 ]
Lay me down, tuck me in. Lean on your shovels, have a quiet conversation. Remember, you’re gardening, nothing more, nothing less. The good earth will do the rest. . [ 1800 ]
Drinking from the birdbath, washing face and hands, a pretty little wasp teaches me. . [ 1798 ]
Flowers and bees. Computers and clocks. Hmmmm . . . . [ 1797 ]
You’re not only an expression of the whole, you are the whole dragonfly on a warm, dry leaf . [ 1796 ]
We share the sun, the moon, the stars, the grief, the joy, the wars; is it any wonder, is it kind or wise, to pray for less and beg for more? . [ 1795 ]
Each time they met, they bowed to one another and uttered not a word. They were old by then. When one of them died, they went on bowing just the same. And somehow when the other died, their bowing remained. Cane in hand, I thought, I’ve known men who were just like trees. . [ 1794 ]
William Michaelian 
You must be logged in to post a comment.