How stirring, the seagulls’ cries from the Claggett Creek wetlands behind the houses facing north along Verda Lane. I heard their voices several times yesterday, both morning and afternoon, borne, like the scent of home-cooking, on the southwest breeze. Add to this, winging toward them at dawn, the great blue heron, silent, generally alone, though occasionally in the spacious company of another of its kind. I can almost see the […]
You bring nothing to the deep, dark woods, and leave with less; even stones confess it’s good to see you; yes, it’s good to see you in your summer dress. July 16, 2019 [ 451 ]
There are two houses in the neighborhood with star jasmine growing on a trellis by the front door. The plants are in full bloom, and their scent’s so strong, walking through it is like being in a dense fog. Indeed, it seems odd the particles aren’t visible, for one’s spirit-ship is immediately lost on the jasmine sea of it. And yet, passing by in the evening, or early in the […]
The deep voice of a bullfrog — the lilies are so dense, he can cross Goose Lake without touching the water. On the high platform used by the ospreys, the heads of their young can be seen above the edge of their big rugged nest. Three brown rabbits. The cry of a flicker. Fields of daisies. Budding chamomile. In shaded areas, there is one kind of general scent; in sunny […]
All through the neighborhood, I find the wrinkled lips and toothless mouths of decaying iris blooms. Some are still sticky with color, evidence of spring sweets consumed. The evening breeze blows powder from their necks. No one visits. And so they pass, without regret, from glory days to introspection. Time for tea. The blessing of infinity to wise old aunts, so patient with the foolishness of boys and men. June […]
In front of his house, near the door,
a neighbor not far from here
has small replicas of the statues on Easter Island.
Every day, I walk a lifetime through the sand to find them.
Among the Ruins — April 16, 2009
Canvas 917 — June 1, 2017
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An evening sky, deep, dark, and rich with gray-chocolate thunderclouds. Puddles are always large enough for the sky they hold. A walker’s definition of heartbreak — Starlings enough to carry me off, yet I am the one who is feared. And then, suddenly, they do, and I am the one who is scared. May 19, 2019 [ 392 ]
This world I see, feel, taste, touch, imagine, dream — is my consciousness. And so my early-morning walk, with its chimney smoke, irises, and crows, is my own private mirror. A quick glance, and I see what I think I see. But a deeper gaze reveals eternity, and thus the futility of all thoughts mercenary, by which to the loser goes the spoils. To hate someone is to hate myself. […]
The paint is peeling on a two-story house I walk by every day. The window frames are in rough condition, and many of the slats in their decorative shutters are missing or have settled at odd angles. The double door in front is scarred and worn. The man who lives there is in the same condition. We’ve met a few times as I was passing and he was rolling out […]
A friendly neighbor out walking is glad to see us. After exchanging greetings, he reaches out as we pass, and almost touches my shoulder. Someday we might even know each other’s names, and then forget them when we’re older. And someday when it’s warmer, we will be colder. Oaks Remember Poppies Sunflower sprouting in a paw-print. A pot on the step by the door. Oaks remember poppies. We forget […]
William Michaelian 