February 2019
Author's Note: I'm a retired English Professor spending my time writing, taking the occasional photograph, trying to follow the Dharma. For more about me and my musings: http://www.michaelminassian.com
EARLY THIS MORNING
Early this morning
I looked outside my window
and saw my friend, the poet,
emerge from the fog,
droplets of moisture
clinging to his face
like lost words
from an unwritten poem--
with his white hair and beard
he looked like Walt Whitman
wandering into the wrong century;
he stood for a while
and stared at my house
while I waited with my hand
poised on the front door,
but he turned away
and disappeared back
into the fog--
the shape of him
like a cloud drifting
into the morning’s news,
trailing some fragment
of what he meant
to leave behind.
“Early This Morning” previously appeared in The Lake, 2016
© 2019 Michael Minassian
© 2019 Michael Minassian
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