The air this morning sparkles now the storm
has passed, that left a wake of weather here
as clean as cloud, as still as fog, as warm
as western dusk. Another racing year
surrounds a life today and starts a run
to gather in its circle 54.
Within its yellow signature, the sun
spills moving pools of warmth upon the floor.

A year from now we’ll look upon the course
begun today, and marvel at the change.
Your birthday gift, self-made, is to divorce
your quiet desperation. What was strange
was hibernation. What was shame and sin
was stilling all the symphonies within.