Wednesday, May 21, 2014

Heaven’s own smell


Over the rise, past the cemetery,
through the orange grove in bloom,
on the Sunday morning side of the barn,
the old rusted car your uncle drove,
weeds through the floor board,
cracks in the wheel knob,
heaven’s own smell,
the slowest kind
of smoke.



2 comments:

Jan said...

William, I cannot tell you how much I wish that I could paint the picture that was created in my mind while I read these hauntingly wonderful words...but, I do not possess such talent~

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Jan. But just between you, and me, and the barn, and fence post, and the path leading away, with that statement, I will never agree.