Note to self: Don't be sick on your birthday, ever again.
But still, the celebration is much appreciated: the flowers and the cards, the gifts, the dinner-ordered-in during the Colts halftime (who did NOT give us the gift of a win). Everyone over, chaos as usual. A good day, despite.
So because my brain is somewhat addled by congestion and sleeplessness, and creativity seems in short supply, here's a slight reworking of my birthday poem:
Poem for 52
What truth this, I awake to yet another
November fourth? Surely the earth, in her journey
Has sped too quickly around her orbit,
For seems that just yesterday was
November fourth, year past, and year past, and year past.
I look in the mirror November fourth morning
And start, for she who looks back is both familiar and not,
And seems to change every day.
Yet the eyes, perhaps, and something more, these remain of the girl whose
Birthday was cause for joy alone, and cake.
The mirror shows before me
A journey long and short, sweet and sad,
Just partly over, roads to travel open ahead,
Scrapbooks in the closet, memories on hand,
November fourths of years beyond beckon,
And I turn from the mirror, and forge ahead.