Twenty-five degrees. A pleasant run. I did have on a light pair of gloves. But the feet were free, and the toes, you see, came happily along. The wanderer roves from east to west, in his wake the icy wind — he gathers stars in his tattered sack, shows his back then lights his lamp again. . [ 1384 ]
In addition to running, I walk once or twice a day. Sometimes, even then, I find myself almost running. Either way, I’ve been aware for months how the barefoot-and-huarache experience has changed the way I feel and move. After years of being tortured by shoes, walking and running is a joyful, pain-free activity that’s made it harder for me to sit for more than fifteen or twenty minutes at a […]
I’m still running early in the morning. It’s nice to be out when it’s dark, with little or no traffic. Gradually, according to the body’s suggestions and requests, I’m opening my stride and increasing my pace, adding to the distance I cover and the time I spend out. My heart and lungs respond willingly and gratefully to the pleasant demand, as do my feet, my legs, and the rest of […]
I helped another ant. Or did I? Finding it in one part of the house and then taking it out through the front door must have separated it from its colony, in which case it’s now disoriented and lost in the rhododendron leaves, or the maple leaves, or the grass, or the flowerbed, depending on the direction it chose. My intention was kind — kind, yet possibly selfish. Did I […]
If you’re sure you’ve arrived, don’t worry — you’ll soon be pushed off of the train. . [ 1380 ]
On the tracks to the east, a train’s heading north. A long train. North through the fog, beneath a full moon. The moon that kept us up most of the night. Light in the room. Light between the closed blinds. But it’s the silence up there that I wonder about. I can’t help thinking how strong the moon must be. Is that why it’s round? To keep it from being […]
I thought I’d write a little something, and was about to begin, when I saw an ant climbing the computer screen. It was beautiful, a bit of living script on a blank white page. As gently as I could, I picked it up, carried it to the door, took it outside, and let it crawl from my fingertip onto the step. And so now I’ve done two things: I’ve helped […]
short poem, long poem soft low stop go then now my father’s last breath . [ 1376 ]
On the trail a few days ago, I saw a very large cottonwood leaf, a brittle survivor of winter. It struck me as a kind of landmark, something that would always be there, even in its eventual absence, and in mine, its brown face held together by distinct veins, waiting patiently for an ant to walk by. I’ve thought of it each day since. Next time, if there is a […]
William Michaelian 