A very humid atmosphere, heavy with mold. Stand still long enough and mushrooms will sprout on your arms. Yes, those are your arms, the ones you keep covered far too much of the time for fear of just such an outcome. Embarrassing, you say, to walk through the grocery store with mushrooms on your arms. And I say, balderdash, let them erupt, and see if they’re not admired by the […]
the little bird in her nest, the falling star, the drop of rain, the winding path — why do they look at me like that? . [ 1818 ]
Last night, after a warm, sunny day, I dreamed it had snowed, and that the neighborhood was a hushed, white calm. This morning, there arose in my mind the image of last summer’s junco nest in our hanging flower basket, after the little ones had flown. And I marveled all over again at its simplicity, and how quickly it returned to the elements, to the earth from which it came. […]
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 ]
This year on Mother’s Day, our eldest son arrived with a large hanging flower basket he bought from someone who’d set up a display on Highway 99E a little north of the town of Corvallis. He’d been hiking and running in the woods near there and was on his way home when the display caught his eye. The man had stuffed just about every plant imaginable into his baskets — […]
William Michaelian 