Monday, September 29, 2014

First light


The cool air on your skin, each hair rising,
history, the moon, any illusion you so choose,
and how it chooses you, the way you play
and mean to lose, what you say as much
as what you do — the color, warm,
rising, the very mirror
of this room,

wounded,
the season’s last bright flowers,

the winding street you’re carried through,

and how you remember kneeling,
the sound of wax as meets melting stone,

if you would so care to choose,
and you do — just as the doing is,
the choosing is, to tell.



4 comments:

Jan/JFM said...

You are an amazing writer, my friend. You take me in and out of so many scenes as I read the painting of your words...lovely~

William Michaelian said...

Thanks very, very much, Jan....

Jonathan Chant said...

Good choice of words, William.

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Jonathan. As a matter of fact, I like yours too.