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 ]
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 […]
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 […]
William Michaelian 