Near the old horse-drawn French plow, around which in spring the bluebells bloom, there is a tiny oak with three jagged yellow-orange leaves still firmly attached to its dark sturdy stem — its entire growth for the year. In all likelihood, a squirrel planted it there — a noble destiny from a forgotten meal; and a solemn joy to note, for someone who often cannot remember what he had for supper yesterday or the day before. Was it love, or was it sorrow? He tastes his lips. Both, he is sure.
November 23, 2020
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Bluebells, Diaries, Fall, Gratitude, Journals, Joy, Love, Memory, Sorrow, Squirrels
William Michaelian 