Wednesday, November 5, 2014

In passing


Clouds so low, so dark, joyously brooding;

rain-black, worm-rich, breathing earth;

mushrooms now, in wise-white shrouds;

proudly naked birch, leaf between each toe;

your life, your work, what they are worth;

the sudden news, that you must go.




2 comments:

Lorraine Renaud said...

All the love I had, for life, of all, stopped by an internal voice that screamed at me: Get the hell out of here. I left.

William Michaelian said...

And yet you are here, as everywhere is. Thank you, Lorraine.