Remnant rain from Hurricane Delta,
another battering of bad news.
Meanwhile the trees go gold as usual,
disclose their true colors
on schedule, as “Dreams” goes viral
alongside disease and denial.
Today’s my last thirtysomething
birthday, and I’m clinging
to the decade like burnished
leaf to branch—a bit drained,
determined to shine, vulnerable
to the ravages of weather and time.
Always in their melancholy/
self-reflection/potential, birthdays
evoke the feeling of a personal
New Year’s Eve. And the “Cheers!”
of auld acquaintances means
more with each passing year,
much more this pandemic year.
(In the stillness of remembering
what you had, what you lost.)
Thirty-three weeks pregnant,
alchemically, amid everything.
Leaves turning, nature healing,
life growing, data tables of the dying.
A deciduous season
too teeming with metaphor
to think about much of anything
besides the baby’s health,
please let the baby be healthy,
before blowing out pink candles
on a Dairy Queen cake.
Batter my heart, motherhood.
Come quickly, death of ego.
In February of this year
Lawrence Ferlinghetti died.
Since 17, I haven’t stopped thinking
…the leaves were falling / and they
cried / Too soon! too soon!
—Written last year on my birthday, 10/10/20.