There are only three hundred sixty-five days in a year, yet that short time is enough for the passing of four miraculous seasons. Each day is one of significant change, and though it holds reminders of those just passed, and promise of those to come, it is in itself unique and profoundly alone, ready to be welcomed, loved, appreciated, noticed — and then . . . and then, it is — gone.
May 3, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Attention, Consciousness, Diaries, Journals, Love, Seasons
William Michaelian 