Recently I came across a birthday. It was mine.

Anyway, I didn’t really wax philosophical about age and time and life and how I’m wasting it. Instead, I remembered this self-highlighting poem I’d written in 2016, and decided to rewrite it. Here is the updated version of a Song of Myself (Whitman, anyone?), because I’m actually a pretty cool person and October is a good month.

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I was born in the crisp October,
 When wisps of cold blow dry all over,
 When dappled sunshine filters through
 A wilted tree’s mosaic view.
 A patchwork quilt of wind and leaves
 Stop chilled air dropping in the eaves.
  
 I was born under blue moons and blue skies,
 When every forest and noon beautifully dies.
 October Queen, October child:
 A crown of maple expertly styled.
 October storm, October air:
 Stings when it’s warm; clean-cut like a square.
  
 I was born on Sabbath eve,
 When moonlight dripped between the leaves
 In shadowy puddles too graceful to grieve.
 The speckle-down ground, grateful, receives.
  
 I was born in amber October,
 And I can’t remember, now that I’m older. 

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Thanks for reading! Have a wonderful week.

Poem and picture by Kimba Wisotsky. All rights reserved.