For your 58th birthday

Sitting deep in the night

I cast my hoping net,

Waiting for a poem.

One swims by, ponderous, dim.

An epic about war and glory. Not mine.

Another. A Haiku. I cradle it gently:

My roof catches the rain,

My ears catch the raindrop’s

catching my roof.

I wait, for your birthday is almost here.

A poem must have been sent, to drift in–

for poems are love,

and Love does not forget.


I reach, I stretch. I touch.

As it comes into me

my heart warms and the feeling is one of tears

and tenderness.

I drink. The poem fills me. It is music, few words.

The words say:

As I grow older I grow in love for you.

For your love is unfailing, uncritical, noble.

But more than your love for me, which, like

the earth,

is where I stand,

There is the treasure. You, yourself.

You never needed to say what you live.

The words end.

The music goes above me and ever continues.

I offer the poem

it cannot be enough.