William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Earth’

Wilderness Areas

In a space I can traverse in two or three steps, an ant or other creature of similar or lesser size can revel and burrow for days — can pass whole lifetimes and seasons, if the space is left undisturbed. This is why, around the house, I’ve established wilderness areas. Passersby, if they notice them, might see them as weed patches or dandelion infestations. But the miracles that unfold there […]

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Blue Jeans And

We are in the gardening time of the year. And we are the garden. And the harvest is near. April 30, 2020   Blue Jeans And In the waking part of my dream, I’m on my knees in old blue jeans, planting flowers. In the sleeping part, I crumble sweet-aromatic soil in my hand, and, like a wise old chocolatier of a man, hold it up to the nose of […]

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Harvest

A barefoot journal, written entirely outdoors — why have I never done such a thing? This afternoon, within five minutes of walking out into the warm grass in front of the house, I was renewed and restored. Whatever the time of year, I’m in the habit of going barefoot inside — but it’s not the same. Five hours or five lifetimes — carpet is carpet, tile is tile, vinyl is […]

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Love, Look at the Two of Us

A seed, breaking through hard ground. Human seeds, all around. What this poor poet has so long tried to say, is expressed far more eloquently by the beautiful virus in our midst. Beautiful? Yes. For this is how a mother reminds her children when they heedlessly, carelessly forget — that we — are all — connected. For this, and for all things, she has my gratitude. Seen by my wife […]

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Day Book

Which should I believe? Which should I trust? Earth’s April, or the April in my mind? The many Aprils, the Aprils of loss, the Aprils of discovery, the Aprils of love? None? Both? All? The Aprils of the foolishest of the most foolish of fools? The April of fine calendars, of which my mother has no need, and knows nothing about? March 11, 2020 [ 691 ]

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And What Is This Earth Ship

Back to the falls — but not the same falls, no; never have we seen the water rushing so madly; never have we heard it thundering so loudly on the rocks below; the creek in torrent, fed by laughing streams dancing across the path on one side, and spilling over ferns, moss, rocks, and downed branches on the other; a dusting of snow all around; the temperature about thirty-five degrees; […]

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Winter Bath

See how she braids her rivers still — doesn’t know, doesn’t care who sees her — doesn’t come, doesn’t go, doesn’t fear — has no need of any mirror or calendar — and see how the sun bends low to please her, warms the soft green moss on her back . . . [ 622 ]

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