Soon it shall be
My thirtieth winter;
The thought makes me look up
To the heavens,
Outstretched hands
Like an albatross of the seas,
Eyes round like garnets
On a Persian crown
With a reluctant crinkle
That protests against the sun-
I look up at God-
Or at least the version of Him
That I know and live with-
And he tells me
To turn over to the next page
And fill it with a riot
Of brilliant ideas,
And raging madness,
And flowing ink,
And thirty more reasons
To announce to the world
Why I am his favourite child.
This is about gratitude
As much as it is
About age.
