Moss
Moss on the ground, moss on the shrubs, moss on the trees. Moss on the sidewalks, moss in the street. I dare not stop. I dare not sleep. Moss on my feet. . [ 1742 ]
Daybook
Stone’s Throw
I lived, I died. Some say that isn’t enough. But it is, I assure you, it is. . [ 1741 ]
Some I Remember
A little bird, watching from a fence post — some miracles I remember; most, I forget. . [ 1740 ]
Spirits Speak
When we gather ’round a fire, spirits speak. Some of us are in human form. . [ 1739 ]
Affirmative
The fig tree is a show of tiny hands. The vote for spring is in, all affirmative. . [ 1738 ]
Someday
A full, ripe moon over the wetland. Someday, maybe I will write like that. . [ 1737 ]
A Strange Bit of Knowledge
In terms of gun violence, the city we live in is no different than others scattered across this land. Every time we leave the house, we know we can be shot and killed. It might be during a walk through the neighborhood, or when we’re buying groceries, or visiting a park, or on our way to or from seeing our children and grandchildren. It’s a strange bit of knowledge to […]
Back to the Garden
Meditation, enlightenment, reality, truth, self-realization — aren’t such concepts poor, even desperate, substitutes for living our lives as nature intended? I don’t mean this in a critical sense. Piled up in buildings, trapped on freeways, smothered in cosmetics, drugged, poisoned, plugged in, wired, overfed, under-exercised, devoid of basic survival skills, strangers to each other and the environment — we thwart our instincts at every turn. But they can’t be overridden […]
A Warm, Yellow Glow
Measurement, time, comparison, definition — how quickly they fade when I step outside and face the rising sun with my eyes closed. Is reality real, is truth true, when I am suffused with a warm, yellow glow? . [ 1734 ]
Where None Can Be and None Is Needed
Last night, after a warm, sunny day, I dreamed it had snowed, and that the neighborhood was a hushed, white calm. This morning, there arose in my mind the image of last summer’s junco nest in our hanging flower basket, after the little ones had flown. And I marveled all over again at its simplicity, and how quickly it returned to the elements, to the earth from which it came. […]
William Michaelian 