birthday poem

today is my birthday

I wrote a poem today to thank my mother for giving birth to me.

I was feeling particularly depressed, searching for ways to find what it was that made me feel so... You know, birthdays pass. If you're younger, you want to be just a bit older, and when you're just the right age, you start to forget what age you are.  Now I feel everyday is a steady swelling reminder that I have, as far as my body is concerned, reached my prime.  And I'm not as sharp cognitively as I used to be.  That hasn't stopped the short attention span from ruining an otherwise flawless waltz to brand-name geriatrica.  

I write less, and read far less than I write, even of my own work.  The words are half written in between autonomous blinking fits.  A myriad of tenths of seconds lost through a lifetime of staring blankly, waiting for something to come.  Only occasionally do I think on those brief episodes of sensory depravation while my brain actually resets to process more information in the time between blinks... and mourn.  

I started writing the poem as a poem to myself,... a self-deprecating piece where I would make myself sound a most miserable and dejected forgotten son of first-world problems.  And realized I was editing myself to a lighter mood.  Seeing the dark moody phrases placed effectively in front of me, I reassessed just how much I really meant that phrase, whether that described how I truly felt, and changed it.  

So I edited it and wrote a poem today to thank my mother for giving birth to me.

each spring trickles into new sunlights
those come gone to be and left undone
new petals to the sky for all days
each spring yields celestial aster
pluck i count pluck them down pluck the days
each fickle to some strange number fixed
stubbornly odd clings still languishing
each spring divides into new sunlights
the last one first one left for you

The End

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