Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Wayside


There appeared on the cold winter road a butterfly,

Which came to rest on my cane.

The cane, feeling her weight, sprouted leaves,

And the butterfly closed and opened her wings.

Now, I have seen many strange things on the road,

But never this! — only to discover my cane

Had put down roots. Grateful, yet cold, and amazed,

I pushed down upon the curved handle,

To steady myself and press on . . .

Only to find, the road was gone!

I was alone in the snow!

I was old! And peace descended on my soul.

And my soul was an old shoe

From a chance-forgotten, half-remembered

Childhood.

Where to go?

Where more beautiful than this world?



10 comments:

*** said...

wow... that was worth the wait!

The hammering shook-loose more Michaelian magic ~

William Michaelian said...

There’s fresh air in the old attic, that’s for sure!

*** said...

lol..........

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

This story is a bit arCANE, a very hard to Swallow tale.

Anthony Duce said...

Enjoyed.

William Michaelian said...

Gary, I don’t have to sit here and take this from you. So I’ll stand.

William Michaelian said...

Thanks, Anthony.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

I couldn't just let it flutter by.

Marion said...

I found this to be magical & healing. I see dying like birth: we leave a warm, beautiful, safe haven under our mother's beating heart for the cold unknown. Death is but our next adventure. xo

William Michaelian said...

Such a lovely response. Thanks, Marion.