Fifty: A birthday poem


Age is not so mighty as to dwell upon,

It’s the life led, or air filled with sounds.

All around the shake of a day, a walk,

Your finger lingering under water spilled

From a mountain, the deep of it, and cold.

If I were to tell you to let age go, let

Angle of Repose be our point of

Connection, the sound an owl makes

Deep in the woods, or our travels linking

Us to a found history, then you might

Know that love exists outside of

Tangled sheets, youth’s spark or an ideal.

You might have the honor of which

You desire, to call someone love, someone



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