ANOTHER DAY OLDER
A pleased mockingbird sings prettily
high up there in my Sycamore tree.
“Pritee, pritee,” He sings merrily,
He must mean the day, surely not me
for I’m as drab and homely as he.
I won’t complain, I decide, with glee.
We both are blessed, and you should agree
one day older, is a gift, you see.
Copyright © 2010 Gerald Bosacker