It’s been so long — I think of writing you today. Do you think of writing me? — And do you wonder what to say? So many letters set out this way — Like little rafts at sea — And we — Blind fishermen — Should Odysseus pass this way — Would he know us by our hunger — Or our bravery? Blind Fishermen. April 15, 2020. Poems, Notes, and […]
Another farm trip, another apple variety: Rosalee, by way of Honeycrisp and Fuji. Read the sixty-third chapter of Middlemarch. Added two photographs, Maple Time and Eternal Breath, taken yesterday at Silver Falls State Park, to the bottom of these pages. October 20, 2023. . [ 1903 ]
Back to the falls. The sun was shining in the hills above the fog. The maples in the canyon are glowing yellow. The trees still have most of their leaves, and are releasing them one by one like butterflies. Few hikers were out, most of them in their sixties and seventies. On the path below North Falls, one man we met looked at my beard and said with a smile, […]
Like some others recently installed in the neighborhood, the new streetlight near Don and Jane’s house doesn’t have a plastic enclosure for the bulb. And this morning I noticed a spider has built a web across one of the four exposed sides. Beaded with moisture from the fog, it was beautifully illuminated. The spider could have chosen any bush or tree growing nearby. Instead, it climbed the smooth, silver pole […]
Dripping maples, full birdbaths, flowers bowing their heads. Since yesterday morning, the temperature hasn’t gone up or down more than two degrees. We leave the house open. Last night, we could hear the crickets. Rain or no rain, now is their time. Thoreau’s journal, February 1854. One day, he followed the tracks of a fox in the snow over a mile. No phone, no map, no app. Strolling vs. scrolling. […]
Yesterday we saw a solitary hiker with thin, long, gray hair, leaning with his right palm against the trunk of a mossy old maple, and the maple pushing back, ever so gently, to the quiet music of the stream below. Now, you and I both know, how he was and wasn’t there, and how he is and always will be; that if by gracious chance we pass that way again, […]
Were I to name the wildflowers, they would go on being wild, and I would become a little less so. Along the rim trail, and deep in the north end of the dustless, green canyon, is an abundance of delicate flowers, poised on tender stems, calling out to the bees and butterflies in scented voices and soft hues. Some look like tiny stars; some have large petals; some hold up […]
Blue sky? Warmth? Is it possible? What a strange dream. Moss is growing on the dahlia bed. The maples are an odd sort of green. Can those be leaves? Pinch yourself. Yes, those are nests in the trees. Look again. The last of your thoughts are blowing to sea. There they go. Back to the ether. No need for me. . [ 1729 ]
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 […]
apples crisp, maples rose and yellow / geese in flight, wet feet on cold stone . [ 1604 ]
William Michaelian 