I ran a little later this morning, though I was done well before sunrise. Still, light was growing in the east, and I was treated to the first early-morning round of robin-song I’ve heard this late-winter, early-spring. One bird was perched on a low retaining wall, singing as it watched me go by, a scene that repeats itself every year, and which always remains new. I’ve run every day now […]
This poem was written fifteen years after my father’s death. He was a good reader, and remembered what he read, but as an adult he wasn’t a reader of many books; certainly not of poems. Like so many of his generation, he read the daily newspaper from front to back. And like my mother, he encouraged his three children to read, and expected us to do well in school, which, […]
Note: To operate the camera, cradle your life in such a way, standing above it, and in it, looking down, through it, and all around, from childhood to dawn, then press the button that takes the picture — and be sure not to frown, when you realize you forgot the film. . Thoreau’s journal, entries for March 2 and March 4, 1854. The First Bluebird. Golden Senecio Leaves. The Melting […]
A new day breaking into bloom. Dust in my room. Waltz with my broom. . [ 1762 ]
If happiness and joy could be summoned with effort, just think how happy and joyful we would be; still we try, and are undone by trying; what made me think of this? a cloudy, misty dawn; my heart beating; the universe rolling on . . [ 1758 ]
A full, ripe moon over the wetland. Someday, maybe I will write like that. . [ 1737 ]
Dawn. An orange, smoky sky. When the world ends, won’t you come to see me by and by? . [ 1548 ]
I was sitting on the front step at first light, just as the robins were beginning to sing, when I noticed the soft, blurry shape of an animal a few feet away under the lacy green maple. Was it a cat? No. It was a raccoon. I stood up. Surprised to find someone so near, it quickly moved away. I sat down again. More light. More robins. More light-robins. More […]
William Michaelian 