I love moss — its color, its texture, its immediate response to fog or the slightest hint of rain, and how it thrives on thoughtful compression and familiar touch, growing thick beneath footsteps on sidewalks, in lawns, and on forest paths. In some ways it is almost human. Or maybe we are almost moss. This time of year, the retaining walls, the stone steps, and the wooden borders of the […]
Of the clump of hyacinths we planted recently in front of the crape myrtle I now call a pomegranate, the Muscari armeniacum jumped out of the ground as soon as we turned our backs. Soon there will be enough to cover an entire hillside. Then I will exchange my pen for a shepherd’s crook, and lead my sheep into their purple presence. Fig leaves, bright-yellow, as big as elephant ears. […]
Yes, where there’s a monster, a mob will form. Some will throw stones. Others will cheer the monster on. This will be accompanied by systems of outraged justice and law, hypocrisy, and war. And yet through it all, there will be those who love. They will not be part of the mob. They will not steal. They will not kill. They will not be indignant or righteous or loud. And […]
A smidgen of rain. Dry under the trees. The timeless scent of crushed dry leaves. It sounds almost like a recipe. And it is, for paradise, for calm, for peace, for sanity. Where have the lines gone, the edges, borders, and boundaries? To graveyards, every one. Another leaf is down. The Rain and the Dead We can count storms but not raindrops, wars, but not the dead falling thick […]
William Michaelian 