Love, if I must speak, let me be brief, for the birds are singing. And Love said, Each to his joy, his grief, his responsibility — not as tyrant, or teacher, but as melody. Shepherd’s Song Your hour, my century, said the mountain. Your stone, my grief, said the man. Your words, my longing, said the wind. Poems, Slightly Used, January 16, 2010 [ 251 ]
On its side in a trailer at the curb, one bare Christmas tree.
Or is it a casket in a hearse, and a human tree?
The Last Day of the Year — 2018
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For every love, every grief, every pain, an early-morning streetlight — but there is, I am certain, one star to explain. “Early-Morning Streetlight” Recently Banned Literature, December 29, 2014 I Like the Idea I like the idea that there’s an idea. In the bare trees of winter. In the wise-hungry birds. In madness and mittens. Out past the graveyard. Have you seen them? How they roost on the branches […]
This gentle soul came into being this past Christmas Eve.
But of course he has always been with us.
And it’s not hard to believe he always will be,
Or to conceive that love, is all, we need.
Christmas Canvas — 2018
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The body at work — its processes humming, oxygen, the brain, the blood, the ebb and flow of star matter, day and night, moon shadows, waterfalls — and somehow, from somewhere deep in the tickled tissue and folds, there arises the familiar notion that I am bothered or inconvenienced, that I am in pain, that I am unfairly punished, that I am ennobled, to the point of addiction, the crutch […]
I met a young father holding a baby. I had no idea who they were. I took the baby in my arms, held him up against my shoulder, and spoke gently to him. He smiled. I don’t remember what I said, but I think it was something simple and silly, but true. It’s been quite some time since I’ve held a baby — not a thought one has every day. […]
Coffee on, I was reading near the open front window this morning at a little after four, when a robin started singing, either from the lush volunteer cedar near the walk, or from the roof, or from the tall juniper directly across from the window and behind the dahlias. I couldn’t quite tell, but its voice was so joyous and so loud, all I could do was stop and listen. […]
William Michaelian 
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