Mortality
’t is a conscious winter, when the rain is bright and the stars go out . [ 1639 ]
Tag Archive for ‘Winter’
Cured by the Cold
So perfect, so still — did you die, little bird, or were you cured by the cold? . [ 1636 ]
Sage
The cricket’s quiet now . . . that’s the wisdom he carries into winter. . [ 1599 ]
Before Us
Those first few leaves that fall, dusty and pale — let’s call them ambassadors of winter’s good will. . [ 1550 ]
When Gravity Meets Memory
On the trail a few days ago, I saw a very large cottonwood leaf, a brittle survivor of winter. It struck me as a kind of landmark, something that would always be there, even in its eventual absence, and in mine, its brown face held together by distinct veins, waiting patiently for an ant to walk by. I’ve thought of it each day since. Next time, if there is a […]
Morning Tea
After sipping icy water spiced by moss-crowned leaves, the robin flies from the birdbath to the fence-top for a meeting with the squirrel. When they arrive, they find the sun already waiting at the spot. Welcome to my secret hideaway, says he. I’m surprised you found it. Then the clouds move, and the sun, the robin, and the squirrel disappear. And here we find the poet, not quite ready, in […]
Rhododendron Dreams
A hard freeze — and, climbing a twig staircase, a fluffy wren brings light to the world. January 1, 2022. Afternoon. . [ 1339 ]
Proud Old Men In a Row
More snow during the night — about an inch, maybe a little less. Thirty degrees on the front step; barefoot down to the end of the driveway, and then back up, possibly a little colder. Still, relatively speaking, the weather is mild. Real cold — Solzhenitsyn’s cold and Jack London’s cold — is not a joke. It is not to be trifled with. It’s easy to walk barefoot outside for […]
O Holy Night
the sweet call to rest / the bare lilac / the mossy wall / the cedar chest December 23, 2021 . O Holy Night I do love the short days, the early closing in of the dark, the long nights beginning in the afternoon, the afternoons even earlier on the rooftops through the firs. There is so much light in everything everywhere I turn, in objects, faces, and books, the […]
William Michaelian 