Saturday, November 9, 2013


Those autumns he sowed barley by hand
between the vineyard rows, just to see it sprout
and grow, and plow it in come spring:

You should have seen him
gaining strength:

Each quarter-mile
another galaxy.


Jonathan Chant said...

Grow/plow - nice pattern.

Fine poem for me to end the day on.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Jonathan. It’s a dear memory, and I never quite do it justice. Still, I try now and again, hoping for a cumulative result — like snow, like seeds, like stars.

vazambam (Vassilis Zambaras) said...

Memories are always hard to nail down but this one sounds/looks like it's hammered firmly in place.

William Michaelian said...

Vineyard gone, father gone, yet one still thrives and the other still walks. The memory itself a living thing. One seed lands on soil and grain results; another in the mind, and puts down roots. Thanks, Vassilis.

Jan said...

Dear William...written so beautifully and cultivated with love~~~

William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Jan. Much love to you, dear friend.