William Michaelian

Poems, Notes, and Drawings

Tag Archive for ‘Rivers’

Forty-Two Houses

Counting the one we live in, between here and the stop sign there are seven houses. I just ran to the stop sign and back three times. That makes forty-two houses. It’s foggy this morning and fairly chilly out, just above freezing. Nice and dark. No wind. Dawn just a thought, not yet a glow. Maybe a promise. We shall see. I refuse to take it for granted. Forty-two houses. […]

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Reflections

Thirty-six degrees. After so many inches of rain, Goose Lake has risen and expanded by hundreds of feet all around. We have never seen it this full, or as heavily populated by ducks. The road that leads deeper into the park is submerged far and wide beneath swiftly moving water, part of the river having returned to its old channel — the area by the old black cottonwood that has […]

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Whispers

It took me sixty-five years to discover the joy of working barefoot in the cold winter-wet yard. All those years in socks and shoes, trying to keep warm — what next will I unlearn? December 15, 2021. Afternoon. . Whispers The old man, they say, has lost his mind. But we do not lose what we give. And it is cold where they wait to be known. It is cold […]

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Shall I Tell You of My Former Life?

Slow verse, dry stones, the river shows her age. Kind nurse, soft tones, her smile full of maple leaves. August 20, 2021 . Shall I Tell You of My Former Life? Shall I tell you of my former life? It happens in the strangest way, today, not yesterday, before tomorrow begins, and where my new life ends, over, and yet over, again. Like smoke, it rides the wind, and as […]

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Chairs

This morning, after watering the various plants and flowers, which are now taking on their fall tones, I continued my early morning celebration by soaping myself in cool water and rinsing with cold. It was a bit like bathing in a river and then standing under a waterfall. The shower space is small, but there is a skylight in the bathroom. Only in the dark days of winter do I […]

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Whatever It Is

Jimsonweed, a single plant with one open flower. The ferry, closed, because of low water. Whatever it is — does it really need to be said? Does it need to be thought? Does it need to be done? August 16, 2021 . [ 1202 ]

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Making Us Round

Yesterday evening after dark, we had the universe to ourselves. So it seemed, so it felt, out walking under the clouds and stars, knowing full well that the clouds and stars were under us as well, making us as round as this dear round globe. Above us, though, in the swath that was visible to our bare naked eyes, were majestic rivers — rivers of illuminated clouds in galactic strands; […]

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