Slow Sentence
My life is a slow sentence — written in faith and served with relish. . [ 1657 ]
Tag Archive for ‘Sentences’
A C-Minus Paper at Ten Thousand Feet
Two and a half miles: frogs the first time around, robins and owls the second. Forty-one degrees. Sandal-free and completely barefoot for a distance of three houses. To reflect the world, and everything and everyone in it, as clearly and truly as a high mountain lake; and when looking into that lake, to see the world and everything and everyone it. In school we were taught not to use incomplete […]
I Can’t Tell You
Eating only what I need is joy, not punishment. It takes no discipline at all. Having what I need is a miracle. I still run early every morning. The atmosphere these days is heavily scented with the blossoms of trees and grasses. I love the quiet and dark. I walk in the afternoon. I love the light. Two or three days ago, I saw Bruce. Bruce has a dog named […]
Death Sentence
A poem of a sentence from Emerson’s journal, written 19 June, 1838: A young lady came here whose face was a blur & gave the eye no repose. The story behind it? Gone. Or is it still to be written? Mass shooting. I wonder how old I was when I first heard or read that term. No matter — now it is commonly used in plural form. It was certainly […]
Fall Postcard
The dogwood is a beautiful red this year. If I were to make myself invisible and walk up to it ever so slowly, and then give the tree a shake, birds would scatter in every direction, a fluttering eruption of bright grosbeaks and chickadees there for the seed. Then, seeing nothing, they would soon return, some from the cedar, some from the maple, some from the birch. And I would […]
To take a lifetime to write it, even when it appears quickly and suddenly on the page.
To discover how deep are its roots, and how bright its leaves.
To see the space around it, the light behind it, and the shadows it casts.
To listen to it breathe.
To marvel at its strength, in a savage and brutal age.
To die for it, if that’s what it takes.
To read through the fire, and write from the grave.
Canvas 1,207 — May 10, 2018
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William Michaelian 