This moment is the perfect place to live and die and rest. It’s the perfect place for joy. Tell me: have you ever been anywhere else? Have you seen this moment end, or traveled beyond its edge? Tell me: where else would we have met? . [ 1402 ]
The fear of pain is pain — the fear of hunger, The fear of death, the fear of grief, the fear of loss. The fear of joy — is not joy: it is the tragic cost. . [ 1393 ]
A playful squirrel chases juncos, just to see them hop and scatter. A bright-red robin flashes by, makes the squirrel jump and run. A missile flies, a mother dies, a child cries — another day is done. . [ 1392 ]
Shorts, a T-shirt, and another run through the dark in the rain. Fifty-two degrees, a joy to move and breathe. And then there’s the news: the neighbor’s overflowing gutter, a streetlight out, a car with a for-sale sign, the sound of distant geese. Wet arms, wet face, wet hair, wet feet. Nations come and nations go. Rally ’round the flag — a mother’s grief, her bloody sheets, her once-bright tablecloth. […]
Also in today’s news: your birth, your death, your breath, your joy. . [ 1385 ]
If you’re sure you’ve arrived, don’t worry — you’ll soon be pushed off of the train. . [ 1380 ]
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 […]
Is the life I’m living — here, now, today — truly worth sharing? And when it ends, will it be worth passing on? If it is, let this be my last will and testament: Blessed with this experience, I bid you love your own. . [ 1366 ]
Sweet sleep, for we might say sleep is that from which we arise, to emerge at birth and find ourselves astonished by the light; and then, at the appointed time, that to which we return, ripe and ready for the next miracle. Sweet, for how could it not be? — as sweet as the sleep of the child one was, is, and will become — sweet as the dew on […]
William Michaelian 