As long as this body is in the world, and as long as it remains lit from within, the urge, the desire, the need, is to tell all — the instinct, the drive, the purpose, the dream. I am my own living and breathing confession, and by this confession, my life is fulfilled.
I walked very early this morning on streets shimmering with particles of ice. The sky was almost entirely clear. But there were more stars on the asphalt than there were above. A beautiful, primitive experience. I did not slip, even once. Later, after taking off my shoes, I found a few stars melting on our old entry rug.
January 15, 2020
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Categories: Everything and Nothing, New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Confessions, Consciousness, Poems, Poetry, Walking, Winter
William Michaelian 