Monday, August 15, 2016

Then a child


He stood, and walked out, and wept, and rejoiced.

He flew, and he remained.

He fell into his birth, and then he arose.

A butterfly came to rest on a flower.

A wish. Then a child. Then a cloud.

And then the poem of his life came to a close.

As everything goes, as everyone knows.



2 comments:

Jonathan Chant said...

Spot on, William. Reminds me of Blind Billie Blake.

William Michaelian said...

He taught me to play this way when I was down in Mississippi.