Poem for 48
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.
Never mind, for these tiresome observations,
While accurate, contain too much cliche and sentiment.
I look in the mirror November fourth morning
And start, for she who looks back is both familiar and non.
(She may be my mother; when I am stronger, I shall inquire.)
Yet the eyes, perhaps, and something more, this remains of the girl whose
Birthday was cause for joy alone, and cake.
Do I feel rather old and tired? And look so too?
Used and worn? Cynical, and unhopeful?
I eye me, sternly--none of that! I'll gift myself
Today, with the gifts of youth, and anticipation,
wonder and curiousity, joy and merriment.
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.