Happy Birthday

"The more alive you are, the more you are aware of death."

~ Samuel Menashe ~

Refusing  At Fifty-Two To Write Sonnets

It came to him that he could nearly count

How many late Aprils he had left to him

In increments of ten or, say, eleven

Thus: sixty-three, seventy-four, eighty-five.

He couldn't see himself at ninety-six --

Humanity's advances notwithstanding

In health-care, self-care, or new-age regimens --

What with his habits and family history,

The end he thought is nearer than you think.

The future, thereby bound to its contingencies,

The present moment opens like a gift:

The greening month, the olden week, the blue morning,

The hour's routine, the minute's passing glance --

All seem like godsends now. And what to make of this

At the end the word that comes to him is Thanks."

~ Thomas Lynch ~

Rue
"For what I did
And did not do
And do without
In my old age
Rue, not rage
Against that night
We go into,
Sets me straight
On what to do
Before I die --
Sit in the Shade,
Look at the Sky"
~ Samuel Menashe ~ 

"Hope is easy and belief is simple in a warm green world. Winter is the time when man most needs the securities of unshaken certainty, whether it is the Winter of the soul or the harsh Winter of the year. I must know Winter if I am to know Spring and Summer. And here is Winter, with its own wondering and its quiet and its own discoveries, its solstice and its turn."  ~ Hal Borland ~

Messenger

"My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird --

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work.

which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pastures, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all ingredients are here.

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleep dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever."

~ Mary Oliver ~

A birthday is just the first day of another 365-day journey around the sun.
Enjoy the trip. 
~ Author Unknown ~

Many thanks to Marie Horvath's blog for some of these poems. 

Happy Birthday to Chris, my friend; we share today but she the elder by mere hours. Happy Birthday to me; may God grant me the desire of my heart which is to follow Him all the days of my life.

Blessings ~ Chris ~ another year ~ April, the cruelest month ~