Childish notes — some things never change. And some things, are not things, at all. Summer in the vineyard, a small boy sitting under a vine, hidden by all the other vines. Thinking of it still, of the stillness, still that still, nigh sixty-eight years old, in full. One breath in all — one moment, one grand revelation, one sensation, of being. Alive, blue jeans to the ground, the same […]
Winter or summer, wherever you may be, I hope this finds you well. Upon resuming publication, my thought is to take things slowly, and to add to these pages on an occasional, irregular basis, making each new entry a kind of letter from home, a hodge-podge from this side of the moon, taken from notes and observations made along the way. These “letters,” as I’m calling them, will be collected […]
Apple days, orange nights, persimmons on the wind. Melon rinds, summer sighs, I’ll not be back again. . [ 1849 ]
heavy dew . . . bare feet / sunrise / hummingbird / watering can . . . . [ 1825 ]
Little bright lights twinkling in the pine — why on earth would I call them birds? . [ 1809 ]
If summer is a dry-grass smell and fall is smoke, winter is a clear-glass bell and spring is a rhyme alive in your throat. . [ 1790 ]
Riot of wildflowers, symphony of weeds — yes, little junco, the ladybug is pleased. . [ 1782 ]
William Michaelian 