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.
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.
Thanks for reading! Have a wonderful week.
Poem and picture by Kimba Wisotsky. All rights reserved.