Upon returning from her early-morning walk, she said, “A raccoon, as big as a small bear.” . Rushing water, fluid sand, where the stream meets the sea. For an instant, there are two of me. But to keep my balance as I cross, I must mind my feet. . Potted the coleus cuttings. . Read chapters twenty-eight and twenty-nine of Middlemarch. . . . It is an uneasy lot at […]
Yesterday we saw a solitary hiker with thin, long, gray hair, leaning with his right palm against the trunk of a mossy old maple, and the maple pushing back, ever so gently, to the quiet music of the stream below. Now, you and I both know, how he was and wasn’t there, and how he is and always will be; that if by gracious chance we pass that way again, […]
heavy dew . . . bare feet / sunrise / hummingbird / watering can . . . . [ 1825 ]
Washing my feet in the stream after a long, dusty hike — there goes a little more of me. . [ 1817 ]
Washed away at our meeting — in the waterfall, none of us have names. . [ 1810 ]
Up and down, over rocks, our feet are covered with dust. Here’s a raven. A flower. Moss. Miles we walk. Down to the stream, out to the middle on high, dry stone. Pools, mirrors, circles, nothing square, no edges. To wash our feet here is to bathe them in infinite space. At home, we carry water to the blueberry and mint. Infinite grace. . [ 1803 ]
We threw our words overboard, only to find that they’d become anchors, and that our ship wouldn’t move; then they became fish: we cast a great net: around it they swam, and through; they leap’d to the heavens, were shimmering stars in the blue; then one by one they fell; they’re falling still; and each that lands is true. . [ 1801 ]
Drinking from the birdbath, washing face and hands, a pretty little wasp teaches me. . [ 1798 ]
Of course you’re the center of the universe. You’re also a flower. A river. A plum. Bright in her hair. Adrift on the water. Secure in her fingers. Warm in her palm. What else to declare? It’s the same the other way around. . [ 1789 ]
William Michaelian 