Let’s consider,
on your birthday —
The years through which you passed,
from the moment it began
in birth —
the cacophony and tumult
as you joined the human race.
The years through which you passed,
seeming fresh and endless,
dashing —
to learn a thousand things so new
it shocked you to discover.
The years through which you passed,
in brilliant burst of adolescence,
staring —
a stranger’s body in your mirror,
as you watched your new self bloom.
The years through which you passed,
a scalding, callous world,
learning —
rock-hard ways for holding onto
your resilient sense of wonder.
The years through which you passed
in timeless cruelties,
fighting —
the world’s best efforts
to press you into harmless clay.
The years through which you passed
to gain a woman’s wisdom,
sifting —
through the men around you
until you fixed yourself on me.
The years through which you passed
to knead and mold us into union,
weaving —
with my woeful, insufficient thread
the bonds that must sustain us.
The years through which you passed,
to know me without words,
patient —
when the pages of my person
faded with the stains of age.
The years through which you passed
to sit across from me,
humming —
in a harsh, revealing light,
not minding that I stare.
Your years are precious to me,
the whole unyielding number.
Each day —
is a moment that defined you
in the pounding crucible of time.
These years have done it all,
and fashioned you just so.
Don’t say —
they add up to very few
if measured by the lives of stars.
Can we, before I pour us coffee,
or you unwrap your birthday gift,
agree —
to rightly banish from the day
all who wish you happy 39th? Again?
I’d slug them —
but then you’d have to go my bail.
-- to Lisa on her birthday
