Monday, December 8, 2008


Early the other evening, on the way home from buying apples, oranges, pears, and honey with my wife and our little grandson, heading west from the country back toward town and into a painted sky of new clouds from a rise in the road, I thought, how beautiful if it were all to end here — but of course I kept that to myself, because voicing such things at a time like that is selfish and inexcusable — besides, although I do still remember it now, the feeling departed within a few blissful seconds of its arrival — and then I pointed and said, “Those clouds are really something.”


Sometimes I find them
drifting through the house.

They linger in the hall,
obscure a high shelf or valance.

When they part, I half expect
a goat to come bounding down,
or a wayfarer begging alms.

Here and there a village,
warm bricks, a familiar hearth,
old women carding wool
and making bread.

Wheels turning under clouds,
trees and wet green fields,
solemn roads that lead away,
a stranger who somehow
knows my name.

From Songs and Letters, originally published May 24, 2006.

Dreams: another added to the Annandale Dream Gazette (see Dec. 7 entry).

As the Conversation continues, we try to make sense of the aforementioned dream.


S_Allen said...

It took me several reads, but I think it got it.

I like how its almost a drift into Faerie.

Very beautiful

William Michaelian said...

Thank you. I do often live and travel a great distance in the space of a poem. Sometimes I find my way back; other times, I simply push on from there.

S_Allen said...

I also like the story that was the inspiration for the poem. I need to include those in my notebook when I write - often times I forget what inspired me.

William Michaelian said...

Well, actually, in this case, the story happened just recently — about two and a half years after the poem. When I was writing it, I remembered “Clouds.”

don't be emily said...

I could live in that little story forever.The moments when we wish time could just stop, when it can't be better than this, can it? And they pass so fast.

William Michaelian said...

Quickly passing, forever lasting...