Tuesday, June 14, 2011

Sunday morning as rain approached


Sunday morning as rain approached,
we walked by the river among snowing cottonwoods.

I inhaled a pound of lint.

Yesterday I heard a girl I grew up with
lost her husband to cancer.

I haven’t seen her since high school
and didn’t know him.

You should have heard them whisper,
the trees along the path,

the girls with their eyes closed,
thinking no one was about.

Summer sorrows and wedding gowns;
the far-off taste of lips.

The way back is longer than we remember.
We cross it in a breath.


14 comments:

erin said...

mmmm

you speak as softly
as blowing curtains

xo
erin

Transcend Designs said...

Erin said it best for me,
nice one William...
: )

William Michaelian said...

I feel like them sometimes, Erin. Thank you.

I appreciate it, Brad. Thanks.

Denise Scaramai said...

so beautiful William,

I think that whole life, is no more than a breath...

William Michaelian said...

Yes.... Thank you, Denise.

all ways 11 o'clock said...

yes,
i heard you whisper this
precious poem William.

~robert

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Robert. When we listen, anything is possible.

Anthony Duce said...

You capture so much here of the feeling and the conversations with ourselves that take place at such times. A wonderful voice…

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Anthony. Somehow, an old friend’s loss and the memories that arose upon hearing of it, became intertwined with what I heard and saw and felt during our Sunday walk. So really, if anything was captured, it was me.

~im just only me~ said...

Lovely; I saw some cotton woods just the other day and I wanted to write about it, but lo! here is something perfect :)

Two Tigers said...

This is what poetry is all about, William - you became the melting pot for these different elements of loss and memory and a recent walk under the trees, and out came something very familiar and very strange, and at once belonging to all of us and none of us.

William Michaelian said...

Cassie, thanks. I’m high on your lo! And when it’s ready, your cottonwood poem will write you, every bit as much as the other way around.

Gabriella, you say it so simply and beautifully. I will add only my resounding Yes.

giacomo conserva said...

'a universe he will not understand, a universe made of sadness-'
Ginsberg's ETHER I think.
(and made of JOY)

William Michaelian said...

Made of joy, and thanks for bringing yours, Giacomo.