Love Child
Here I am, barefoot in my shoes, walking through cottonwoods to the sweet sound of running water — and I think, The leaves and the breeze have given birth to a daughter. [ 756 ]
Tag Archive for ‘Spring’
Harvest
A barefoot journal, written entirely outdoors — why have I never done such a thing? This afternoon, within five minutes of walking out into the warm grass in front of the house, I was renewed and restored. Whatever the time of year, I’m in the habit of going barefoot inside — but it’s not the same. Five hours or five lifetimes — carpet is carpet, tile is tile, vinyl is […]
Begging Bowl
I will be the cherry tree, and you will never know. March 20, 2020. Afternoon. [ 700 ]
Spring and All
The hyacinth censed what the lilac meant by the swelling of its buds — this way, love — March 20, 2020 [ 699 ]
Night and Day
So many kinds of apples, in sugar, scent, and blush — in a dream — as you undress — I see their orchards bloom. [ 686 ]
Winter Trees
“The bird names have trapped me. They exist in a realm of unsolvable mysteries: the realm of nothing more than connotation. And yet I want to know what the bird behind each looks like. Why? I shouldn’t care.” Winter Trees † Feline huntress, dozing on the grass. Along the fence, a cortège of wary sparrows, each dark face a funeral card. On my lips, imagined bird names: Shwittl, Tikipap, […]
Bouquet
Love, I remember that day — the gardener was a bee, the flower your hand, and my heart was stung to perceive. [ 681 ]
Procession, Highway 22
Through pink clouds of plum flowers And air too cold for bees — even Grief seems pleased To find You — in your white robe — Love — February 26, 2020 [ 677 ]
Novice
Yes — if I live long enough, I might believe anything — of this I am the proof. And if I die soon enough, I might believe one thing — this budding apricot, this eager rose, this frosty springtime — even truth. [ 660 ]
Visions of Spring
Dear crocus, sleeping in the morn — laughing later in the storm — my time to preach is past, but not my time to learn — or why — on earth — be born? Visions of Spring Our battered house tugs at its anchor in a sea of mud. In the galley, there are potatoes with bulging eyes, onions with hair, dwindling lumps of cheese and bread. From the […]
William Michaelian 