Trees are not only trees: they pretend to be trees. They know I am used to seeing and thinking of them as trees, and are kind enough to act accordingly. At the same time, like me, they are what they are by virtue of a process that disperses and combines everything in the universe to arrive at something familiar, yet always original and new. And so now, in effect, it […]
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 ]
In my long life, have I ever really forgiven anyone? There is arrogance in yes, foolishness in no. And now I find the part of me that took offense is gone. I seem both sky and pond — and that is something to reflect upon. December 30, 2019 [ 620 ]
Of our love, may others say they are moved to poetry. Of our foolishness, may they say they are moved to love. [ 503 ]
William Michaelian 