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,
listen to the bird,
and think of you.