Sometimes I think that without these writings,
I would drift off into space like a child’s balloon.
Sometimes I think I already have.
Sometimes I rejoice in the return of my prodigal hands,
and do not ask where they have been.
Sometimes I am not I, but the wind.
Sometimes I find this body by the road,
and wonder if it might be something I said.
Sometimes I simply bow my head.
Field of stubble; walnut grove; chimney crow;
are these things I really know?
Will they love me when I’m dead? Will you, my friend?
.
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Aging, Child and Man, Consciousness, Death, Gratitude, Poems, Poetry, Prodigal Hands
William Michaelian 