Birthday Poem

eyes open from a dream
Sunday morning
sleeping in.
a  lawnmower is humming

think I’ll stay put awhile
let my thoughts swirl
and meander where they will

I can hear the drumming
of tiny feet as squirrels
chase across the roof

today begins my
sixty-ninth year
(funny how the number
still evokes an
adolescent chuckle
or,  perhaps,
even a
secret
sigh)

oh god!
am I really that old?

hey!
a number is a
number is a
number. just an
arbitrary slice,
an artificial notch
on the wall

outside,
the world
beckons

through my second floor window
the sky hangs clear and blue
above the gabled rooftops

but peace is abruptly broken –
a crow flying from tree to
wire displaces and troubles

a pair of mourning doves.
his victory caw ricochtets
through the neighborhood

I laugh out loud

easy to forget
how good it feels
just to be alive

an urge compels me
to mark this moment.
to transform the
nonverbal into words
to turn water into wine

I close my eyes
and  slowly
let  the bucket
drop down
into  the
well

inspiration is a
touchy process. it
resists a needy mind

one must be coy,
feign indifference but be
ever at the ready…

ah, the payoff

suddenly, words begin
to flutter by like
butterflies on the wing

most of them will vanish down
the hole where my forgotten
passwords sleep

but I will  manage to
snatch a few

slowly,
steadily,
out of chaos
an image takes shape.

like  a torch lit pictograph
on a cavern wall
a poem begins to emerge

I must run down stairs
write it down
capture it,
nurture it
savor it

May 15, 2016

Photos by Charlotte Olivea McClain