How long has it been since I felt offended? I wonder. I really don’t know. Who, or what, is there to offend? Is there a noble concept of myself in danger of being toppled? Do I have a religious or philosophical point to argue, or a political position to defend? No. I am just a child in an old man’s body, up, in the morning, once again; up, to see five crows on one limb — and then, a robin.
July 19, 2019
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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Crows, Diaries, Journals, Poems, Poetry, Robins
William Michaelian 