And if the sky is a well, and a well is the mind,
then perhaps thirst is the flight of our kind.
Child Flight — September 24, 2015
[ 309 ]
Drawings
And when I say this is really a drawing of her hands,
I wonder, who will be able to imagine them?
Canvas 1,232 — March 5, 2019
[ 308 ]
Canvas 1,232
You made the sky purple,
the boy drawing with me in second grade said.
But which boy? And what was his name?
Canvas, 1,231 — March 4, 2019
[ 307 ]
Canvas 1,231
Canvas 1,230 — February 28, 2019
Winterwood
From the bare lilac,
the hummingbird
eyes the crocus;
that’s what I know.
Poems, Slightly Used, February 23, 2010
[ 303 ]
Canvas 1,230 — Winterwood
Pause — March 5, 2019
Pause
After all is said and done
the wind chime
is still
listening
to the falling snow
[ 299 ]
Pause
Canvas 360 — February 17, 2014
Poem
Light
is
my
prayer.
Poems, Slightly Used, March 9, 2011
[ 291 ]
Canvas 360 — Poem
Still Farming
As an old farmer of the written word, I know that in my deepest cultivation I’m really just scratching the surface, and that the strange crops I bring forth, the cactus and the flower, are food of brief duration, and that when I’m gone, the land I care for and hold dear will be safe harbor for my feeble literary bones. Once, many years ago, while we were engaged in […]
Canvas 358 — February 11, 2011
Starry Night
Dear old face,
lined deep to harbor cookie crumbs.
All the mice and men
who’ve held you,
forgotten,
every
one.
Poems, Slightly Used, February 27, 2011
[ 286 ]
Canvas 358 — Starry Night
Inheritance — February 8, 2019
Inheritance
Every winter,
we pruned
the same
long
rows
of vines.
Now we’re older;
some of us have died.
I see the vineyard in my mind:
the brush is tangled, leafless, waiting.
Songs and Letters, February 4, 2007
Winter Poems, Cosmopsis Books, 2007
[ 283 ]
Inheritance
Canvas 837 — Winter Comes, Winter Goes
Tracks made by a bird. The kind was hard to tell. And then it snowed. Soft and white it fell. He died that day. They say he never wrote so well. [ 279 ]
William Michaelian 