William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Good Fortune’

Peacefully Ignorant

Tiny towns and crossings on the west side of the river: Amity, Hopewell, Eola. Lincoln. Zena. Bethel. On this side: St. Louis, Brooks, Mt. Angel, Bethany. Churches. Barns. Cemeteries. Oaks, firs, winding roads that give way to gravel. Smoke from fireplaces and stoves. Deer. Wild blackberries. When was the last time I wanted something I didn’t really need? It must be the forthcoming Richard Wilbur translations of Molière. And the […]

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Feathers and Dust

When once we see everything is a flower — from wayward child to walnut shell, changing sky to ancient, mottled hand — we understand that no measurement or value can express the shimmering grace of this world. Life is so fine and so rare, it cannot be fathomed by means of comparison, or appreciated on such narrow, limiting terms. Just as there is profound strength in the whole, the individual […]

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Breakfast

Bread, seeds, nuts, raisins, honey. But what did I really have for breakfast? One by one, before taking a single bite, I thought of the origin and lives of each — walnut trees, fields of sunflowers and pumpkins, peanuts in the ground, a variety of grains swaying in the breeze, vineyard rows in autumn, bees busy in berry blossoms. And then I ate — slowly, marveling at how each of […]

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Resting on the Rim

Insects, resting on the rim of a wide blue flowerpot; a bird, eating them one by one; each is acting according to its need, until the need is no more. No greed, no poverty, no depleted resources; no waste, no alleys lined with overflowing garbage cans. Good fortune: in times of plenty, all are filled; when times are lean, all are lean. Gratitude: to be here now, in joy and […]

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All of Us

Adults, intent on fences, wishing their backyards were bigger. Children, on swings and trampolines, as light and free as birds. May 16, 2021 . All of Us I climb the corner pine, my cousin ahead on the branch above. It’s our birthday month. Higher and higher. Needles and bark. When we come down, we’re sixty-five. Some say age. I say luck. We run a race. We hide. We throw clods. […]

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Good Fortune

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 ]

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