There are only three hundred sixty-five days in a year, yet that short time is enough for the passing of four miraculous seasons. Each day is one of significant change, and though it holds reminders of those just passed, and promise of those to come, it is in itself unique and profoundly alone, ready to be welcomed, loved, appreciated, noticed — and then . . . and then, it is […]
Your face is calendar enough for me, the lines, the seasons — what need of dates, where light and touch and grace agree? January 1, 2021 . Snow Lessons To write with the breath, to draw without touching a thing. Are these not snow lessons, and the patient teachings of steam? You say, This pen. This page. These keys. How can I not touch them? And from deep inside comes […]
This is a Wednesday that feels so much like a Friday, one is sure Sunday is near. But what if I’d never seen a calendar, and had no idea what they were? What if I didn’t know names had been given to the days of the week? For me there would be no week, no month, no year, only seasons. There would be the kind that are short, which pass […]
William Michaelian 