Another trip around the storied sun
that’s all a birthday is, no more—
still, I wish that I had been the one,
there, to celebrate at ten times four.
To count it up, on fingers and on toes.
Paint yours bright—Blushing Bride,
even if that’s not how the story goes.
Yes, our stoic star on another curving ride--
the quiet heart won’t measure time the same.
So much stays, this rushing river in my soul--
Look up, or in, see life past loss and gain,
not knowing what to hold, what to let go—
Take from me now this broken mirror,
hold it just right—what becomes clearer?
1 comment:
Beautiful. Wrote you.
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