On the Morning of My Thirty-seventh Birthday

I curled in bed and watched the gray flush peach and gold
while saluting the bird that would not cease outside my window
its unrelenting stream of staccato and pitch, and, there,
quiet and still, I thought of life and you.
You, who hold home and all familiar in your eyes,
with shadows that still beguile and
bind to what lies below.

And of our seven saplings- and the small one soon to come,
slowly stirring beneath the covers and my skin,
while muscles tighten and contract,
while I watch the light and
listen to the bird and
think of you.


Deborah Anne said...

That's beautiful, Abigail. So beautiful. The denouement makes me think of Billy Collins.

Deborah Anne said...

And happy birthday, sister of mine.

Abigail said...

Thanks, Deborah.
Who's Billy Collins? Isn't he the bread and the knife? The crystal goblet AND the wine?

Deborah Johnson said...

I don't know who he is, but you clearly happen to be the shooting star, the evening paper blowing down an alley, and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.