When the fig leaves fell, they were bright and deep beneath the tree. Now their color has seeped into the ground, and the grass is growing up through me. It’s a fine time. A rhyme time. A time like every other time I see. No time. Flow time. Rain time. Snow time. Free. . [ 1656 ]
Look at them. Some are so small, they seem only feathers and a heartbeat. And though we’re made differently, we’re made of the same things, and share the same breath. To me, this isn’t just poetry, religion, or science. It’s miraculous, inspiring, intimate. Thank goodness I don’t need to prove its significance, or tell you what it means. You already know we’re here to love each other, ourselves, and all […]
Leaves crisp where they’ve fallen, grass growing through. Winter’s a love story. We are too. . [ 1643 ]
This old body is going through some changes this winter. It reminds me of cracking walnuts with my father during the long cold evenings. He was a boy, and I was at least a hundred and ten, when, crack! The outside was in, and the inside was out again. . [ 1640 ]
’t is a conscious winter, when the rain is bright and the stars go out . [ 1639 ]
So perfect, so still — did you die, little bird, or were you cured by the cold? . [ 1636 ]
The cricket’s quiet now . . . that’s the wisdom he carries into winter. . [ 1599 ]
Those first few leaves that fall, dusty and pale — let’s call them ambassadors of winter’s good will. . [ 1550 ]
William Michaelian 