Concord — harmony; a grape; a town; Emerson; Thoreau; all that’s forgotten, but not unknown. * Negativity: the great pandemic. Yet the cure is instantaneous, and starts with yourself. * How strange, being a member of a species smart enough to kill itself. And here is our mother, gently whispering over us, Live, and we think her voice is only the sound of the waves, the wind in the trees. […]
When the fig leaves fell, they were bright and deep beneath the tree. Now their color has seeped into the ground, and the grass is growing up through me. It’s a fine time. A rhyme time. A time like every other time I see. No time. Flow time. Rain time. Snow time. Free. . [ 1656 ]
Leaves crisp where they’ve fallen, grass growing through. Winter’s a love story. We are too. . [ 1643 ]
Not many days ago, and an equally uncertain number of nights, I read backward and aloud the last page of Samuel Beckett’s The Unnamable. Standing before our big front window, paced by the commas, I read the words slowly and with feeling. When I reached the top of the page, I wondered if the author might not have done the same thing himself. It’s possible he could even have written […]
Leave the leaves where they fall — yes, leave the leaves, ’til they’re not leaves at all. . [ 1616 ]
running through the windy dark in icy rain the leafy streets the streetlights’ shine come inside dry the feet the legs the hair and find a strange sight in the mirror . [ 1608 ]
a leaf on the ground / lines on her face / an old man with faith in his cane . [ 1580 ]
Those first few leaves that fall, dusty and pale — let’s call them ambassadors of winter’s good will. . [ 1550 ]
William Michaelian 