Thirty

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.