This birthday once meant retirement. The end.
Now, I’m told it’s just a number.
But that greeting card message didn’t reach
my eyes, knees and heart. They feel
like my brain – tired, nostalgic, inexplicably crying.
Once it was believed that birth days
should be mourned, not celebrated. They are
days when people are born into lives
of suffering. Sing, laugh, give presents – while
Christians celebrate days that saints were martyred.
A Libra, I supposedly seek that balance.
This week, an equinox to bring me
into my birthmonth, balance night and day.
Season of Earth tones, cool nights and
in another place it becomes green spring.
Sixty seconds to a minute, sixty minutes
to the hour, but nothing past that.
61. I have slipped off the clock.
Every second, minute, hour, day – a bonus.
Home runs. The record book. Mister October.
Labor began with bursts of colored pyrotechnics
to accompany the baby’s declaration of independence.
Tonight, with wine in the soft darkness,
I can see the first-quarter moon, bright Vega,
the universe of love in her eyes.