Saturday, October 11, 2014

Little glass bells


An old shaving mug full of upturned pencils.
A face, in the glass, through the storm.

The sharpest lead to sketch the restless maple.
The softest bed, the oldest rug, the place you’re born.

Long last, first life, lost love, gentle touch.
Know not, present best, carry on.

The flattest, for the mold, rich, ground.
The breath, the itch, the scratch, the hair, the arm.

Moist, in the eye, most, blessed, crown.
Now, the tune, the tone, the talk, the song.

Slippers, socks, figures, clocks, little glass bells.
Something, stops, a rooster, crows.



6 comments:

Jan/JFM said...

Sounds like a warm, comfy place to be, William...just like being wrapped in a soft, old flannel bathrobe...comforting~

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Jan. Yes, let autumn reign....

Jonathan Chant said...

Another beautiful song you know.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Jonathan, and thanks for remembering.

Ygraine said...

A comforting place to be...an entire life in these lines..and memories of all that came before...
This is fabulous! :)

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, very, very much....