Someone says the bright new mushrooms shine like lanterns by the walk. . . . the moon? In Light Of Twenty-six degrees this morning. I wonder what I would do if I were a star? Shine like the rest of them, I suppose. And perhaps be gone by the time my light is seen in this faraway world. Lantern is a word I love. I wonder how old I […]
If it can be held, it can also be released. There have been other thoughts today. But I do not remember them. September 24, 2019 [ 521 ]
Oh, the fall rains! Day and night, mushrooms sprout in tender grass, and crowd my little hut. And look! Here lie my bones! September 23, 2019 [ 520 ]
If I had not known desperation, could I now know calm? What does the house feel, when it’s pelted with cones? If I had not known fear, could I now know love? What does the house dream, when the sun warms its bones? dahlias in the rain bowed heads weak stems she brings them in [ 519 ]
Is it confidence, or arrogance? If we are honest with ourselves and with others, if we are doing our best at whatever our work happens to be at the moment, if we are grateful and attentive and enjoying the health that sacred, lucky combination brings, why would we also need to feel confident, as if we hold, or are seeking, some advantage? Is it because confidence is universally praised, and […]
In 1851, in a journal entry written in late-September, Thoreau writes in its own separate paragraph the following sentence: The poet writes the history of his body. This statement, or observation, occurs seemingly out of the blue, between references to the growth pattern of pine trees and the tendency of a certain kind of grass to burn slowly and steadily without flame. In Part 2 of Clarel, his 18,000-line poem […]
Rain, in such volume, with such force, and the cedar, unperturbed, a solemn drinker at closing time — yes, what is wisdom worth in this leaky house of mine? September 18, 2019 Hoh Rain Forest July 20, 2010 One saw swans back then. Another, fingers, hands. I saw faces. I see them again. [ 515 ]
A parsley leaf survived the wash. Soap, hot, cold. Spin, rinse, spin. Scent, fresh, green. As if these were little things. September 17, 2019 Good Fortune You say this morning you will write a mountain range; and then, when evening comes, a ladybug crawls across your blank white page. [ 514 ]
Out walking early this morning in a strong southwest wind promising rain, I fell to thinking about my personal history, and how, one by one, so many of my tired habits and other forms of learned behavior have fallen away. It has gradually become clear, for instance, that to think, behave, and eat a certain way, simply because that was the way my father and grandfather thought, behaved, and ate, […]
The dream I was going to write this morning has evaporated. Last night, it was so vivid when I awoke that I was sure I would not forget it, especially since I stayed awake for several minutes afterward. Or was that interval of waking also part of the dream? Just as I finished writing the last sentence, I heard a cat screeching somewhere in the darkness. There — there it […]
William Michaelian 