I woke up with my hair a hilarity of
lichen, my face wild with moss.
I poked a sprig of dried flower
skeletons above my ear and wandered
downstairs to sing myself a birthday song.
It went hm-hmm something queen, green
or I don’t know, but you instantly
picked up the vocal percussion plus
backup vocals and I danced and hm-da-da’d
most of the way until you high-fived me
at the end, grinning.
Then it was time to whistle up the cats
and head down the mountain to gather
feathery wands of yarrow trying again
after the first frosts, dried goldenrod
and oh! The milkweed in a frothy hoopla,
cartwheeling above the weeds.
After lunch you brought me that last
small square of grocery-store cake
with a q-tip burning in place of a
birthday candle. We laughed and waved
the smoke away from our faces while
our little dog barked wildly.
And it was all enough and so good but
then the rattle of wind in the dried
weeds tonight brought sharply to mind
my grandfather singing with all his heart
to me, to me, the November I was newly nine
and we were making our way through the dark
dry cornfield toward the lights of home.
Originally published by Misfit Magazine in November 2021
From one poet to another, I wish you would do art AND write poetry. Happy Birthday.
You are most kind, Sherry, and I thank you! I really appreciate the encouragement and support.